


Walking the Edge

by Macx



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser is targeted by a sniper and ends up hanging between life and death. Ray vows to track down the shooter, with whatever means necessary</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> written way back in 1995

The room was lit by a lonely lightbulb, and the table and chairs looked ready to break down every second. There was nothing else in the room but a little stove, a fridge, and a bed. The open window admitted the noise of the street down below. A figure sat on the bed, half in the shadows. The lightbulb was not strong enough to cast enough light to touch more than one-third of the bed. The figure held a piece of paper in its hands, reading what was written on it. An envelope lay on the floor, torn open

All of a sudden the figure on the bed crushed the paper into a small ball and threw it into one corner of the room.

"You'll pay for this!" the figure hissed in rage and pain. "I'll make sure you'll pay for this!"

 

* * *

 

"I'm telling you once again: no. N.O." Ray Vecchio leaned forward, fixing the man opposite with a decisive stare.

"But, Ray ...." the dark-haired man began, but Ray shook his head.

"I'm **not** searching any more garbage cans with you, Fraser. I did it once -- and found decaying stuff all over my place for **days**. Not to speak of those ...." he shuddered theatrically, " ... **parasites** that were on my Armani jacket. You can't believe how hard it is to get the stains and the smell out of the clothes!" A wave with his hands supported the decision.

"But it was for a good cause," Fraser objected. "We helped a family. This is for a good cause, too."

Ray sighed, rolling his eyes. "Benny," he said patiently, though there was a definite note of sarcasm in his voice, "searching for a lost book in the local garbage cans is nothing I'd call a good cause. I'd call it disgusting."

"It is a very special book, Ray."

"Which was probably stolen. How can you believe the story of this kid, hm? He's a street rat! He steals, he begs, he might be doing drugs, too. And you believe that he owns a special, expensive book?" Ray Vecchio shook his head again. "Get real, Fraser. This isn't friendly, honest Canada where no one dumps garbage on the streets, everyone stops at red lights, and crime is something in a science fiction book. This is Chicago." He spread his hands.

"It's a common misconception that Canada has a lower crime rate than the United States," Fraser began, but Ray held up his hands.

"No lectures, Benny, okay? It's not even eight yet. I can't take it on an early morning stomach."

The man in the bright red uniform jacket sighed silently, but wasn't insulted like most people would have been by the way Ray reacted. "Kevin owns this book, Ray. He inherited it from his father. And he's not doing drugs."

"The kid probably never **had** a father. And he's surely doing drugs. Every street kid does." Ray looked intensely at his friend. "Open you eyes, Benny."

"You're prejudiced, Ray," Fraser told him seriously. "Because Kevin lives on the streets doesn't mean he's into drugs. Street people are as different as those with more luck are. You are judging people by the way they look. Kevin is clean."

"Yeah, right. And you know that. You're probably letting him sleep in you apartment, right? Don't come to me when he steals whatever you keep in that hole of yours." The detective leaned back. "You're naive, Fraser, if you think he's a poor, little kid with some bad luck. He's a thief. Give him a hand and he tries to cut it off and sell it to a pawn shop."

Benton Fraser was undaunted by his friend's slightly aggressive and absolutely sarcastic behavior. "I promised to help him find the book. It is the only thing he possesses. I intend to fulfill that promise."

"And the second he's got back the book, he sells it for some bucks. Who are you? The Good Samaritan? The Salvation Army?" He raised his hands in an appeal to whatever deity was listening. Vecchio just couldn't believe that the Canadian could be so naive.

"He won't sell it. It is not special because of its value. It's special because it's from Kevin's father. It is the only thing he still has. His father died a few months ago."

"I'm moved to tears," the detective said cynically. "And where did Daddy get it from?"

"He drew it himself. He was a comic book artist."

"Comic book artist? You want me looking for a **comic** book, Fraser? Forget it!" Ray shook his head. "No way!"

"He asked for my help, Ray." The Canadian was completely serious about it all.

"Are you doing ads in the local paper? Come to Fraser, he'll help you? Geez, Benny, you can't go on helping everyone you meet! There are people out there who are just waiting to use you."

"Any more coffee?" The voice of the waitress broke into the discussion.

"Thank you, Irene," Fraser said politely and she gave him a bright smile.

"You're welcome," she answered, her eyes as bright as her smile. It was visible she had a crush on the Mountie.

Ray only grimaced and held up his cup to get a re-fill. It was still early in the morning -- at least it was that for Detective Ray Vecchio. He wasn't an early morning person by nature and preferred to rather sleep as late as he could. But since Benton Fraser had stepped into his life a lot had changed. One was the more or less regular breakfast at the coffee shop, Joan's Place. Fraser's early morning shift started at 8 a.m., a time which Ray had usually chosen as wake-up time for himself. Now he was already wide awake, had eaten a whole breakfast and drunken two cups of coffee. It wasn't so bad to be up early, he had found out after a few weeks. He had good company and good food, and it sometimes paid to be up early -- it gave you bonus points with the lieutenant if he saw you coming in early to work on a case. And he needed every bonus point he could get. Ray Vecchio wasn't the most popular cop around the precinct. Then Fraser had come along.

Benton Fraser was a RCMP officer, a Mountie. He had been transferred to Chicago to work at the Canadian consulate as a liasion officer, after he had ruffled some feathers in Yukon. Ray knew as much as everyone about the story, maybe even more, but he was sure that Fraser had not told him everything. There were still some blank spots. Vecchio had helped the new-arrival to find the killer of his father, had even followed him back to Canada to give him a helping hand with the case.

Now he lived in one of the worst parts of Chicago, but not because he didn't have the money to pay for a better neighborhood. No, his argument went like that, that it was only a short way to where he worked. That he had no sufficient electricity, no running water in his apartment -- but therefore in the corridor -- and that the neighbors were what Ray would title as lowlife didn't bother him at all. Fraser also had a very practical approach to everything and if he could help someone in any way, he did just that. Though he was carrying a gun, it wasn't loaded -- because he had no license to use a gun in the United Stated. And he had absolutely no problems telling this little fact to someone else, even if this someone else was pointing a gun at him -- or Ray. There had been more than one time that Ray had simply shaken his had in confusion about his new partner's behavior.

That Ray and Fraser were partners was something everyone at the precinct Vecchio worked seemed to have accepted. Even Lt. Welsh. Fraser was still a Canadian police officer and -- if you looked closely and interpreted every law -- he had no jurisdiction here in the United States, and because of that couldn't really work as Ray's partner. But since this strange team was very good at solving hard cases, Ray's superior seemed to overlook the fact that one of his detectives had a Mountie as a partner.

"No one uses me, Ray," Ben said, getting back to the discussion at hand when the waitress was gone.

"Tell me another one," the detective grumbled. "Searching for a comic book in garbage cans! Geez!"

Fraser simply shook his head, deciding there was no further use in going on with this. He rose from his chair.

Ray looked at his watch. It was nearly time for Fraser to begin his shift. He was dressed in his red dress uniform because he was supposed to stand guard today. Vecchio thought it was ridiculous. Standing motionlessly in front of the consulate, never smiling, never reacting to anything someone said was no job for a grown man. Absolutely ridiculous. He had experienced his own frustration more than once when he had tried to talk to Fraser and the Canadian hadn't even moved a muscle.

"You want me to drop you off at the consulate?" Ray asked as they left the coffee shop. He still had some spare time before he had to show up at the precinct, and though Fraser most of the times preferred to walk, he never said 'no' when offered a ride.

The dark-haired Mountie was just putting on his hat, something he never seemed to leave home without -- even when he was wearing his 'civvies'. And just like the uniform, people -- especially women -- loved that hat.

"Thank you, Ray," he simply said.

Fishing for the car keys in his coat the Chicagoan police officer began to walk toward his green Buick, which was parked further along the road since there had been no parking spot in front of Joan's Place. He didn't notice Fraser looking at the window of the coffee shop again and frown for just a second. He didn't notice the sudden widening of the blue eyes as Fraser's brain took in the reflection in the window. The next thing Ray knew, was that he was thrown to the pavement by main force while someone -- Fraser? -- yelled " **Down**!"

A shot rang through the morning noise of traffic and people going to work.

Ray hit the pavement the exact second the shot was fired. For just an instant he waited for the pain of the hit to come, but nothing happened. In one fluent motion he had his gun in his hand and rolled around behind a car, looking for the shooter. His eyes swiveled over the assembled cars on the other side, then moved further up as his brain started to put some images and feelings together. The shot had come from high above, not from straight across the street or down the road, that much his police trained mind told him. There, on top of one of the buildings, he caught the quick image of a figure with something looking like a rifle. The figure disappeared the very second Ray had spotted it.

"He's on the roof!" he called, addressing his Mountie partner, never letting his eyes wander off the roof, his weapon trained on the building. When there was no answer he risked a quick glance over his shoulder. There were two options why Fraser wouldn't answer. Option one was that he was already on his way to intercept the sniper. Option two .....

All of a sudden he felt very, very cold as he took in the picture his eyes presented his mind. Fraser was lying on the pavement, half on the back, half on the side. His hand clutched his stomach and his blue eyes were wide open, staring at nothing specific. Ray registered the shocked expression and felt the same shock course through him too.

"Fraser!"

Forgetting all about the sniper and the still possible danger he was in, he moved over to his fallen friend and partner. He could make out the wet stain of blood on the red uniform, getting larger and larger by the minute. Cold sweat was glistening on Fraser's forehead and his breathing sounded labored. On the edge of his vision Ray registered people coming cautiously closer.

"Somebody call an ambulance!" he shouted, noting the panicky tone in his voice.

He didn't know if someone had complied to his order. All he was concentrating on was the injured man on the pavement. He tried to remember his first-aid training and his brain supplied him with some helpful hints on how to stop the bleeding. With shaking fingers he stripped Fraser of his belt and then opened the dress jacket. The white shirt he always wore underneath was already soaked with blood and Ray felt like loosing his breakfast right here and now. Biting down hard on his lower lip he whipped out his handkerchief and pressed it onto the wound.

Fraser moaned in pain and his eyes slit shut, his breathing transforming into panting.

"Don't you die on me here, Fraser!" Ray commanded harshly. "You can't do that to me!"

"Ray?" Fraser's voice was weak and blurred. His eyes slitted open, a glint of blue visible through his dark lashes.

"Yes, I'm here. Just relax. Everything's gonna be allright."

"On the roof ...." the Mountie panted. "Reflection ...."

"Yes, yes, but he's gone now. I'll get him, but first we have to get you back on your feet." Ray put some more pressure on the wound, making Fraser wince and moan again. "I'm sorry, Ben, but I've to stop the bleeding. I know it hurts ...."

"'S okay," Fraser whispered, his awareness fading.

"Fraser?" Ray stared anxiously at the lax face. "Benny? Ben?!" There was no reaction at all. "No," Vecchio protested in desperation. "No!!"

Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard the siren of an ambulance approaching, but his whole attention was focused on his wounded friend.

"Don't die, Fraser," he pleaded. "Please....."

 

* * *

 

The hospital waiting room was as uncomfortable to Ray's eyes as it could possibly be. The creme colored walls and the beige and light brown seats did nothing to soothe his strained nerves. On the contrary. He felt even more agitated. There were some magazines and newspapers on the table, but he hadn't even spared them a closer look. His mind was fixed on Benton Fraser, who had been wheeled to emergency surgery right after they had arrived with the ambulance. The paramedics had arrived only minutes after the shooting -- someone really had called them -- and had done everything humanly possible for the Mountie. But for Ray it looked like it wasn't enough. He had reluctantly relinquished his position beside the supine man to let the paramedics work, standing a bit to the side, watching .... praying. A patrol car had arrived and he had given them a brief report of what had happened; that he didn't know who had shot at them. Fraser hadn't woken when the paramedics had started their emergency work on him and he hadn't woken when he had been admitted either. Ray had given the doctors Fraser's name and address, telling them briefly what had happened and what he knew. Everything had been written down and he had been questioned for relatives or close family in the city. He had to give a negative answer to every question. The nurse at reception had then asked him to sign a form, which would give the doctors the legal right to perform surgery, though they were already at it. They just needed the confirmation for eventual later files. Ray signed the form, noting that he was now the 'next of kin' for Fraser.

When all the immediate hectic and ceaseless questioning was over, he simply stood there, not knowing what to do. _Waiting room_ , was the first thing that hit his mind. But where was the room? A nurse, who seemed to realize what state of mind Ray was in, guided him there. There room was mercyfully empty of people, though five minutes after he had entered, the door opened and a man peeked in. He looked at Ray, frowning for a second, then, as Ray didn't seem to be the one he was looking for, he disappeared again.

Ray paced the waiting room, stopping in front of the window overlooking the parking lot and the emergency entrance. An ambulance was just pulling up under the small roof hiding the entrance from prying eyes. His reflection in the window showed him his shirt, which had been one of the very expensive ones; a gift from his mother. Now it was stained with blood. Fraser's blood. His stomach wanted to lurge again. It wasn't that he had an queasy stomach by nature. As a cop you couldn't be too sensitive because you saw a lot of gruesome things day by day. Ray himself had seen his share of mangled or days old corpses, or victims of beatings, stabbings or shootings, and he had always felt sick about it. But when you saw a close friend and partner get shot just like that ... it could turn your whole stamina into a puddle of molten ice. And Fraser was one partner who had gotten closer to Ray than he really wanted to admit -- even to himself.

He resumed his pacing, then finally slumped down in a chair, hands dangling between his knees.

Time went by. People came and went in the room, some eyeing him curiously, but never speaking. A couple entered and talked in hushed voices about their child, which had been in a road accident with the a bike. They were called by a nurse after about half an hour of waiting. Then Ray was alone again.

"Are you waiting for news on a friend?"

The question made him look up from his intense study of the grey floor. An old woman sat at his side, her hair greyish white and pulled back in a bun. Lively blue eyes regarded him curiously, but also with sympathy.

"Yes," he answered, thinking it would be extremely impolite to ignore her.

She glanced at his shirt, where the blood had already dried, creating rusty brown stains. He wiped inefficiently at the stains as he discovered her stare.

"Family?"

He shook his head. "Close friend."

There was period of silence.

"My husband has been brought here because he had a heart attack," the old woman then said as if to herself. "They say it is very bad."

Ray looked at her, searching for words of sympathy, but found none. He hurt too much himself and had never been good at it anyway.

"Oh," was all he managed.

But the woman smiled. "Bert lived a full live. If he dies now, I know he won't die with any regrets, except maybe leaving me behind alone."

Ray licked his dry lips.

"Your friend," the woman then said, startling him a bit. "What happened?"

"He was shot," the detective said slowly.

There was a slightly shocked expression on her face. "Oh. Are you with the police?"

He nodded, wondering what made her ask the question or how she had deducted that fact from simply looking at him. "Yes."

"And your friend, too?"

"No. He's Canadian." _As if that is an explanation_ , he scolded himself. "He's working for the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago."

"I'm sure he will be all right," the woman said with total conviction.

Ray could only nod, unable to say anything else. He felt so utterly helpless.

A hand took his, squeezing it. He looked up, straight into her blue eyes. "He will be all right. You have to believe in it. If you loose hope, you loose yourself."

He forced a smile, nodding. She released his hand, patting his arm, and settled back to wait. Ray did the same. After some more waiting the door opened again and a nurse entered.

"Mrs. Wright?"

The grey-haired woman stood. "Yes?"

"If you'd please accompany me? Dr. Lang would like to talk to you."

Ray saw how she squared her shoulders, ready to accept the worst. Before she left, Mrs. Wright turned back to him. "Don't loose hope, officer," she told him once again. Then the door closed after her.

After some time he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was close to noon. He had been in here for nearly three hours now. Three hours of surgery and no word from the doctor. It couldn't be bad, his mind told him. Fraser wouldn't die; he **couldn't** die on him just like that! He had no right to! The fear spread like a cancerous web inside of him. He didn't want to confess to the possibility that Fraser might really die. _Don't loose hope_ , Mrs. Wright's words echoed in his mind.

He felt a headache approaching, which, combined with his overall emotional state, made him feel sick and beaten. With a jerky move he stood again, resuming his pacing. He stopped in front of one wall, staring at the modern picture of a landscape, which -- according to the architect who had furnished the room -- would soothe people. It didn't soothe Ray. He would have loved to slam his fist into the wall if he hadn't been afraid to break his wrist. He would be of no use in finding the sniper if he had a broken wrist.

The sniper. Hatred welled up inside of him. What the hell had he been aiming at? Ben? Ray just couldn't believe that the Mountie had made enemies in this town who would shoot him. Sure, Fraser might have stepped on the toes of some people, but ..... hiring a sniper to kill a Mountie? The only other alternative he saw was that the guy was either completely crazy, shooting at people at random, or that he had aimed at someone else.

Ray closed his eyes and recalled the seconds before the shot. They had left the coffee shop and he had been walking toward his car. Fraser had been behind him and suddenly he had shoved him out of the way. His stomach lurched again. Him! The sniper had aimed at him!

"Oh. My. God....." Ray whispered and sank down on of the chairs like a lifeless puppet. The headache launched a full scale attack.

 **He** had been the target for whatever reason and Fraser had been the one to get shot. Closing his eyes he felt the world starting to spin around him. Fraser had been shot because of him! He groaned and buried his head in his hands. That couldn't be! A long buried memory returned and he shoved it back with vicious force.

The door opened and Ray looked up. A blonde, slightly round nurse entered and looked around, her soft brown eyes coming to rest on the only waiting person in the room. "Detective Vecchio?" she asked.

Ray nodded. "Yes. Is Fraser ...?" He stopped, unable to ask the question.

"Mr. Fraser has just been taken to the intensive care unit. Dr. Bregman would like to talk to you."

"Of course." Ray followed the blonde nurse to what looked like a reception desk.

A man in a green surgery coat stood at the desk, writing something down on a pad. When the nurse approached, Ray in tow, he looked up. He looked a bit tired.

"You are Detective Ray Vecchio?" he asked as a greeting.

Ray nodded again.

"Dr. Paul Bregman," the curly-haired doctor introduced himself. "I'm in charge of the E.U."

"How's Fraser?" Ray feared the answer to his question.

"We don't know yet, detective. We surgically removed a bullet from your friends abdomen. It nearly grazed the artery. The damage was minor enough to give us the time to help him, but he lost a lot of blood and is in a critical condition right now. We're giving him blood transfusions and he has to be closely monitored for the next 24 to 36 hours. The stitches might open again since it was the artery that was hit. After that time we can tell if he might pull through."

Ray felt like his world was tilting again. Fraser's situation was critical. He **might** pull through. God, no ....!

"We saved the bullet for you," the doctor went on and pulled a small, plastic bag out of his coat's pocket.

Ray took it with numb fingers. "Thank you, Dr. Bregman," was all he managed. Then he cleared his throat. "Can I ... can I see him? Just for a minute?"

"Are you family?" the doctor asked in return, lifting one eyebrow.

Ray shook his head.

"Does he have any family or relatives to call?" Bregman went on.

"No. His father died a few months ago and as far as I know he doesn't have any relatives, close or not, left," Ray answered truthfully. "I already told the nurse."

"Then I think we can list you as next of kin for visits, don't you think?" There was a small smile playing around the man's eyes. "You can see him. But only for a minute."

He motioned Ray to follow him and led the detective through a pair of doors with 'Intensive Care Unit' written on them. Ray was given a green hospital issue coat to wear and a pair of covers for his shoes. He thought he looked ridiculous, but the seriousness of the situation smothered every spark of dry humor.

Bregman stopped in front of a cubicle which contained three beds. A nurse sat behind some kind of monitoring station, her place separated from the intensive care unit by a Plexiglas screen. She looked up as Bregman and Ray entered. Bregman stopped at the monitoring station and glanced at the screens.

"This is Recovery," he explained to Ray. "We monitor critical patients for the first 24 hours after surgery and then they're moved to other rooms. One minute, detective," he told Vecchio and nodded toward the only occupied bed.

Ray licked his dry lips and stepped into the room. Like the waiting room everything was held in a creamy color and just like in the waiting room the color did nothing for his mood or emotional state of mind. His eyes fixed on the motionless figure in the only occupied bed. Fraser looked completely still and so ... so fragile. His skin appeared washed out, completely white, nearly in color with the sheets. Ray had always seen him as the invincible man, someone nothing could take down. The Canadian had done so many things Ray would have thought a normal man incapable of. But Benton Fraser was not a normal man; he was a Mountie. For just a second a humorless smile crossed Ray's lips.  Then he remembered the other time he had visited him in a hospital. It had been right after some guy had stabbed him in the leg. It had been the first time Ray had had to admit that Fraser was not invincible. Now ... now he might .... He bit down hard on his lower lip, refusing to think of the word 'die'.

"Hey, Benny," he said with a hoarse voice, clutching the metal reeling of the bed, knuckles white.

There was no reaction. Fraser didn't move a muscle. There were several cables attached to his body, monitoring heartbeat and breathing. An IV line fed the unconscious man with a clear liquid.

"Damnit, what did you think you were doing back there?" Vecchio continued. "You jumped into the line of fire, Fraser." The detective raked his fingers through his sparse hair. He noticed that he was trembling. He bit his lips. "I promise that I'll find that guy. I promise. He'll pay for what he did to you."

His hand reached out to touch his friend's lax hand, but he hesitated a second.

"Detective Vecchio?" Bregman's voice startled him. "You have to go now," the doctor continued.

Ray patted Fraser's hand awkwardly, feeling the coldness of the skin. "Hold on, Benny," he told him with an as steady voice as he could muster. "Just hold on."

Then he turned around and left, his step hurried.

 

* * *

 

The police precinct was busy and Ray managed to get to his desk unnoticed, much to his relief. He had changed from the blood-stained shirt into a clean one, which he always kept in his car. Vecchio knew he had to report the incident to the lieutenant, especially after he thought that this guy might have something to do with him. If he really was the target, this was police business. But before he could face Lt. Welsh he had to get the bullet down to ballistics and get it examined. Maybe they'd find a clue to who this guy was.

"Ray?" The female voice startled him out of his thoughts and he looked up. It was Elaine Besbriss. The dark-skinned civilian aid looked worriedly at him. "Is it true?" she asked, her voice a bit shaky.

"What?" He thought he knew what she meant, but wouldn't say a word more than he had to. His mind was frazzled, his thoughts always returning to the blood covered Fraser.

"I heard that Fraser was shot at and is now in the hospital."

"Yes," he confessed tiredly. "There was a sniper on the roof opposite Joan's Place. He got Fraser." He didn't mention that it had been him the sniper had been aiming at.

Elaine seemed to pale a bit. "Is it serious?" she wanted to know.

It was an open secret that she had a crush on him, but then: every woman at the precinct -- married or not -- had a crush on the shy Mountie. Not that he was shy by nature, Ray mused, he was a bit shy around women who were too direct with what they would like to do. He had never seen a man loose his internal balance as much as Ben when a woman made a direct proposal of a date to him. There was a helplessness in his eyes when that happened that was sometimes amusing.

He nodded. "They don't know if he'll make it." Ray rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the shocked look on her face and the way she had flinched at the words. "Listen, Elaine, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about it until I've had a talk with the lieutenant."

"He doesn't know it yet?" Her voice was quite stable for someone who had just heard such bad news.

"No. I'm planning to tell him right away. I just have to get the bullet down to ballistics."

"I always said you have suicidal tendencies," she remarked. "Okay, I'll keep my mouth shut when he asks, but you promise to keep me in touch."

He nodded again. "Promise."

Elaine shot him another look, then left, going back to her desk. Ray heaved a sigh and took the plastic bag. He'd get that bullet down to ballistics now. The sooner they knew what kind of gun this came from, the better. As he passed Welsh's office the lieutenant shouted his name.

"Vecchio! In here!"

Ray had no other choice than to comply. He stepped into the office of his superior and closed the door behind him.

Lt. Harding Welsh was a heavy set man in his fifties, with greying hair and a notoriously bad mood. Well, Ray had never seen him cheerful whenever they met.

"Vecchio, I just received a call from the Canadian Consulate," the lieutenant began and Ray gave himself a mental kick for not thinking about that sooner. Of course the hospital would call the consulate and the consulate knew of Fraser's part-time partnership with Ray Vecchio and the Chicagoan police department.

"Yes?" he managed.

"They told me that a certain RCMP officer with the name of Benton Fraser was shot at this morning in front of Joan's Place while exiting the same in the company of one of my officers." Welsh lifted an eyebrow. "Is there anything you forgot to report in while you were away?"

"Ahm, sir, I just wanted to come to you anyway." Ray stumbled over his explanation. "I accompanied Constable Fraser to the hospital and waited for the bullet to be removed. And I was just on my way to ballistics to get it examined."

Welsh's eyebrows rose even further. "And why didn't you call in and let another unit take over?"

"Because I was at the scene of the shooting and because ... because he's my friend, sir. And there was another unit coming when the ambulance arrived," he defended his lack of working by the book.

The heavy set man sighed. "Okay, Vecchio, I'll let you get away with that for now." There was an implication in his voice that told Ray that it wouldn't need much more for Welsh to pull drastic measures after this incident. Ray had not followed the rules, and he knew it. He was lucky if this didn't get into his file.

"How's Fraser?" the lieutenant then wanted to know. Changing the topic.

"Critical, sir. They say they know more in 24 or 36 hours." Ray tried to keep any emotion out of his voice, but it was hard to do so. Pictures popped up in his mind and they weren't only of Fraser.

Welsh gave him a peculiar look. "Did you see anything?"

"No. Corporal Fraser pushed me down only a second before the shot and when I looked up I only saw someone on the roof of the other side of the street disappear. The only lead we have is the bullet."

"Any clue to why someone wants to shoot a Mountie."

"No, sir. Maybe it was some psycho with a gun." Ray knew he was lying to his superior, but if he told him about his theory -- that Ray Vecchio had been the intended target -- then he'd be off the case. Well, maybe it wasn't lying. It was still a theory that he himself might have been the target. He had no proof and Welsh was always the first to tell his officers that hunches and wild guesses didn't count.

"Okay, get that bullet down to ballistics. I want a full report about the incident on my desk by this afternoon."

"Yes, sir." Ray turned to go.

"And, Vecchio?"

"Yes?"

"You're off the case."

"What?!" Ray couldn't believe his own ears, staring openmouthed at his superior.

"Gardino and Huey will take over." Welsh sounded dismissive.

"No!" the other man protested. "It's my case!"

"You're involved, Vecchio, so you're off. That's the rules and I, for my part, intend to follow them, understood?"

The detective gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists. Emotions welled up inside of him, but he knew that screaming at Welsh would accomplish nothing.

"Yes, sir," he managed. With that he closed the door behind him and went straight down the corridor, a dark cloud hovering over his face.

 _Off the case, eh? Hah! I don't intend to let Clever and Smart ruin this case and let the sniper get away!_

He didn't have any other intention as to find that creep who had shot his best friend.

 

*

 

Ballistics was a rather large lab in the basement of the police precinct, right next to pathology. Ray always felt uneasy around the morgue and he hurried past the door of the pathologist.

"Hey, Larry," he greeted the man in the lab coat standing in front of a strange looking box. Larry was aiming a gun into what seemed to be a shaft and fired. Then he laid down the weapon and retrieved the bullet from the box.

"Hey, Vecchio. How's'it going?"

Larry Hamilton was a short, bespectacled guy with a mop of red hair. He had a natural cheerfulness which Ray sometimes found utterly disgusting.

"What's that?" Ray wanted to know and pointed at the bullet.

"A bullet, detective. Remember those small things that you can shoot at things with?" Larry carried the bullet over to a microscope and placed it on the examination tray. Then he looked through the microscope. Seconds later he took the bullet and threw it in a trash can.

"Damn, wrong a again," he muttered.

"Huh?" Ray asked.

"Oh, it's one of those cases again, y'know. Everything looks perfect until we compare the bullets ...." Larry shook his head. "Wrong weapon. The guys'll flip."

"What case?"

"The murder at the drugstore. Detectives Huey and Gardino."

Ray couldn't help but grin. He and the other two detectives were not exactly on the best of terms. And now they had his case .... malicious joy made way for cold anger.

"Larry, I need a bullet examined. Top priority."

The man from ballistics grimaced. "It's always top priority in your case, Vecchio. What's it this time?"

"Someone shot Fraser," Ray said grimly.

"Oh." Like everyone else at the precinct, Larry knew exactly who Fraser was, and like everyone else he liked the Mountie a lot. "You got the bullet?"

Ray held up the plastic bag and Larry took it. "You have the results tonight."

"Can't you make it any sooner?"

"Listen, I know it's top priority to you, but there are a few things on my desk that the lieutenant wants to see. And you know how he gets when he doesn't see results. I need those test results to buy me some time to do your bullet, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Larry." Ray meant it.

"No problem." With that Larry Hamilton set to work.

Ray, with nothing else to do down here, left and returned to his desk. Maybe he could find another lead of his own.

 

*

 

Ray sat at the computer and hacked in some orders.

'Please wait', blinked on the screen and he drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting impatiently. After some time a list of names appeared and Ray printed it. Those were the men and women he had arrested in his nine years as a  police officer and which were now free again, and who might hold him personally responsible for their time in prison. There weren't many on the list who might have a motive to shoot him, though, as far as Ray was concerned. And a lot of the people he had sent to prison or who had served a sentence by doing social work were small criminals compared to others now free.

The printer was just done when the phone on his desk rang. He ran over and picked it up.

"Yes, hello," he answered the call.

"Detective Vecchio?" a female voice asked.

"Yeah, the same."

"This is the Memorial Hospital, hold on, I'll connect you." Seconds later he had Dr. Bregman on the line.

"Detective Vecchio?"

"Yes, Doctor. What's up? Something wrong with Fraser?" A knot of fear of the answer formed in Ray's stomach.

"More or less. We have a slight problem here -- concerning a large, white dog."

Large, white dog? Ray's mind made a connection with --

"Diefenbaker!"

"Come again?"

"I'll be right over, Doc. Don't do anything rash. The dog belongs to your patient." Vecchio slammed down the receiver and left the precinct in a hurry.

 _Diefenbaker! I should have thought about him!_

Diefenbaker was Benton Fraser's white wolf. He hadn't been with them this morning since Fraser was on his way for work and Diefenbaker didn't always accompany him. The wolf was loyal to the end and now that his master was lying hurt, maybe dying, in a hospital Ray doubted that the animal would leave him. But maybe he could convince the wolf. Just this once.

 

 

He arrived at the hospital in record time, parking his Buick close to the emergency entrance. Then he took the elevator up to the fourth floor where he knew Fraser was lying. He was greeted by an exasperated looking Dr. Bregman and an annoyed looking nurse.

"This dog of yours is frightening the staff," Bregman said instead of a greeting.

"He isn't **my** dog, Doc. He's Fraser's dog. And his name's Diefenbaker." _And he isn't a dog, he's a wolf, but I won't tell you. You don't really wanna know._

"I don't care if it was Lassie in there. What I'd like to know is how that dog got in here, and I want it out of my E.U!" Bregman walked alongside Ray to the Postoperative Care Unit.

When they came to where the large double doors admitted the nurses, doctors or visitors to the P.C.U. Ray discovered Diefenbaker. The wolf lay in front of the door, just far away enough not to get hit by it when it swung open. He was watching the two men coming closer and lifted his head as Ray stopped in front of him.

"Hey, Dief," the police officer said, careful to look at the animal and make sure it was watching, too.

Diefenbaker was deaf and had been when he had first met him. Fraser always told him to speak directly to him so he could lip-read. A lip reading wolf! Ray first hadn't believed it and wasn't so sure now, but sometimes he came close to doing so.

"You're scaring the righteous and honest," Ray went on, smiling a bit as Diefenbaker cocked his head and barked. "You won't help Benny by lying around here and frightening off the pretty nurses."

A whine.

"That's no argument." Vecchio stopped, suddenly reminded of how Fraser always talked to the wolf like he was a person. And now he was starting to do so too! It had to be Fraser's bad influence on him. "Come on, I'll buy you a steak and we'll see if Willie can take you in for a few days. Or maybe he wants to stay over at Fraser's place for a few hours a day to keep you company."

Diefenbaker made a rude sounding noise and snorted.

"If you don't go voluntarily, wolf, I'll call Animal Control and then we'll see who's out of this hospital."

The threat seemed to work because Diefenbaker sat up, looking indignant.

"Okay, two steaks and a donut. And I'll tell Willie to walk you by the hospital once a day. Deal?"

The wolf growled and came over to Ray. The police officer smiled and patted the white head.

"Good boy." With an even wider smile he turned to Bregman. "No problem."

The doctor simply shook his head.

"How's Ben?" Ray then asked.

"No changes, Detective," the surgeon replied, shrugging. "We have to wait. I can't tell you anything else."

"Thanks, doc."

 _No changes. That's not bad news, but it isn't good news either._ Ray sighed silently and motioned Diefenbaker to go and follow him out of his hospital. The wolf gave a last whine, looking back at the door to the E.U., then followed. They stopped in front of the elevator, drawing curious looks to them. Out of a sudden idea Ray walked back to the reception desk.

"Excuse me," he addressed the nurse.

"Yes?"

"There has been a Mr. Wright brought here this morning. Heart attack. I'd like to know how he is."

"Are you family?" the nurse asked in return.

"Sort of. I know his wife." It was a little lie, but he wanted an answer.

The nurse shot him a narrow-eyed look. "Just a minute." She turned to her computer and typed in some letters. "Did you say 'Wright'?"

Ray nodded, stealing a quick look at the computer screen.

"Mr. Max Wright?"

He nodded again, hoping he was right.

"I'm sorry," the nurse said after a minute.

"Come again?" There was a dry feeling in his mouth.

"Mr. Wright died right after he had been brought to the Emergency Ward. Heart failure."

"Thank you," Ray said automatically, feeling a kind of sadness inside, remembering the bright ray of hope coming from Mrs. Wright. He wondered how she was doing.

"Mrs. Wright took it quite well," the nurse told him as if she had been able to read his thoughts.

He only nodded and thanked her again. "Come on, Dief," he told the wolf. "Time to leave."

 

* * *

 

"Do you know what time it is?"

The question made Ray look up, straight at Elaine. The civilian aid looked worriedly at him. But this time it wasn't worry about Fraser, it was worry about him it seemed. It made him uneasy. Ray glanced at his desk clock.

"Something after nine," he answered warily. "Why?"

"You've been here for two whole shifts, y'know."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And what are you still doing here?"

She smiled. "I just finished another shift, Vecchio. I pulled double because I switched with Jenny. So, what is your excuse for still hanging around these friendly quarters?" Elaine prodded.

"Looking," he muttered, his eyes already back on the papers he had printed out of the computer.

"Looking for what?"

"A lead. And I'm waiting for Larry to come up with the results on that bullet." He tried to sound dismissive, but Elaine was not easy to get rid of. They had been working together for too long as for her to be intimidated by his manners.

"I thought you were off the case?" She quirked an eyebrow.

Ray only scowled at her.

She ignored it. "Need some help? I'm good with computers. What are your parameters?"

The detective sighed. "Thanks for the offer, Elaine, but no thanks. It's enough if I'm in deep shit when Welsh finds out. Just go home."

The woman stiffled a heavy sigh, knowing that she had no chance to get through to the man. "Okay," she finally gave in. "See you tomorrow."

Ray mumbled something incoherent and she left. Elaine was gone for barely a minute when Larry Hamilton called.

"I've got the results, Vecchio," he told Ray.

"Finally!"

"Hey, come one!" Hamilton protested. "It's not my fault that the chief decided there was something even more urgent and ...."

 "Larry," Vecchio broke in. "What do you have?"

"Something very interesting," the ballistic's expert said with audible satisfaction in his voice. "This bullet didn't come from a normal rifle. This one's a special construction, handmade, I guess. Very rare."

Ray listened up. That was a real lead. "Can you say what kind of rifle it might be? Something specific?"

"No, not really. You might find something if you run the marks on the bullet through our ballistic's computer," Larry offered. "I can give you access to the program down here."

"Larry ..."

"Listen, I'd do it if I had the time. But the chief is breathing down my neck in the Zeddner case.

Ray gave an exasperated sigh. "Okay, okay. I'm coming down."

"What? Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight. Warm up that program of yours." Vecchio slammed down the receiver and collected his papers. Then he was on his way down to ballistics.

 

* * *

 

The computer screen flickered in front of Ray as he hacked in various commands and tried to convince the machine to get going and find the files he needed. After a laborious half an hour he found the file he was looking for and scanned in the picture of the bullet's markings. Every rifle left distinguishing marks on a bullet and it was easy to say what kind of type the bullet was fired from if you had comparative notes, especially since these marks were unique enough to narrow the possible weapons. The computer in Ballistics was up to date with all the files and Ray hoped that these files contained a clue to where the bullet had come from.

It was way past midnight when the detective came upon something looking very promising. Finding something specific wasn't as easy as most people believed. There were dozens of files which held information on special rifles and some of them had markings coming very close to the one left on the bullet. But every time Ray thought he had something there was one tiny, little detail which told him that this just wasn't it. Rubbing his reddened and tired eyes he opened the next data file and began to read.

The sun was already coming over the horizon when Ray found a near match to the marks on the bullet. His eyes widened as he read the name of the owner of the weapon. 'Collin McKellen'. He remembered Collin McKellen as one of the weapon's dealers in a case he had solved together with a colleague from New York three years ago. McKellen had dealt with everything that was remotely usable as a weapon, and he was also involved with a drug and weapons ring in New York.

The N.Y.P.D. had given the C.P.D. a full description of McKellen, telling them to keep an eye open for him. He was supposed to come to Chicago in a matter of days for a big deal. Ray had hung on the phone for hours to talk to the N.Y. cop who was working on the case in New York and had been given valuable hints. One week later the police had broken in on a deal and arrested everyone. There had been enough evidence to get McKellen behind bars for the rest of his life, since there were also drugs found between the crates full of weapons.

Frowning, Vecchio printed the file of McKellen and the weapon he had used to shoot himself free from the trap. It was a special weapon, handmade by his brother Mark, and unique. And it also left unique marks on the bullets. But as far as Ray could remember the weapon had been confiscated and then destroyed. A short note in the file confirmed his memory.

The precinct was already busy again. It was somewhere around five in the morning and Ray walked automatically over to the coffee machine, getting himself a cup of the black, bitter tasting brew. Normally he wouldn't even dream about drinking that stuff, but now he needed it. The night before the shooting in front of Joan's Place had been very brief for him as well. He had fallen to bed somewhere around three, only to be woken by the alarm clock at seven.

Nodding a greeting to some of the arriving officers he sat down at the computer and punched up the file of Collin McKellen. Ray was pretty sure that McKellen was behind bars and that he would die in prison. As the file appeared on the screen he was proven right. McKellen had not been released for even one day from prison. And there was no note about him escaping from there, too. Suddenly he frowned. Punching up the second page he read the last sentence at the end of the file.

'Collin McKellen committed suicide at the 25th of July 1994.'

McKellen was dead! He had died through his own hand only one month ago.

Leaning back into his chair Ray stared at the words. He really had expected to find something about an escape or a cell mate from McKellen who had been set free. But McKellen had spend his time alone with no cellmates since he tended to get erratic and violent. And Ray doubted that the suicide had been a fake one. You couldn't fake death through massive blood loss. Collin McKellen had cut open his wrists in the cell -- no one knew where he had gotten the knife from. When he had been found he had been already dead for some time.

Following the other lead he had -- McKellen's weapon -- he opened another file. But it was yet another dead end. The weapon had been destroyed professionally and everything that could be had been molten down.

"Damn!" Ray muttered and closed the files again. Emptying the cup he stood and collected all the print-outs. He decided that he needed the help of his contacts on the streets. McKellen couldn't have been responsible for the shooting. There had to be someone else. Maybe the family? Possible.

Another check came up with more frustrating details. The brother, Mark, had died three months after the bust of his brother. He had O.D.'d. The sister, who's name was Christine, was still alive, but she had left Chcicago and moved to New York. Another dead end. With a heartfelt sigh he stood, stretching. He wouldn't get any further here. And he had to get out of the precinct to avoid meeting Welsh, and Clever and Smart, too.

Stepping out into the morning bustle on the streets Ray went over to his car, yawning. He'd drop by Fraser's place to look after Diefenbaker after he had found his contacts and set them on the shooter's trail. Then he'd drive by the hospital to look in on Ben. Maybe something had changed. Maybe he was getting better. Yawning again he rubbed his eyes.

 

*

 

Helen 'Honey' Melrose was one of the few steady contacts Ray had. She was a former prostitute, now owning a bar in one of those areas of Chicago where you shouldn't walk alone after sundown. Now, at a quarter past six, Honey was just cleaning up the last of this night's customers. A man was unceremoniously thrown on the street as Ray entered the bar. The man muttered something incoherent, walked a few paces and then slid down a wall to stay there.

"Yo, Honey!" Ray called as he entered the gloomy bar, squinting to see through the smoke and twilight.

"We're closed," a female voice called back.

The voice belonged to a honey blonde woman in her late forties, with heavy make-up and a dress that showed more than hid. Ray had met Honey a few years ago, at a time where she had tried to get out of the prostitution business and into what someone might call a normal life. As she caught eye of Vecchio she grimaced.

"Whaddaya want, Vecchio?"

"I need some information, Honey."

Honey Melrose snorted. "I don't know nothing."

"Sure you do." Ray fished out fifty dollars and put them on the desk.

The blonde woman regarded the money and shrugged. "Maybe I do. About what?" She raised one eyebrow.

"There was a shooting yesterday, in front of Joan's Place. I want to hear everything you got on it. All the gossip about the sniper."

Honey frowned and took the money, folding it and sliding it down between her breasts. "I heard about it. They say it wasn't a hired man. There is a rumor that it has to do with Collin McKellen."

"McKellen's dead."

"Maybe. Maybe not. That's what I heard, that it got something to do with him. Why are you interested in the shooting?"

"Because it hit a friend of mine."

"Good friend?"

"Very good friend."

Honey started to mop some spilled drink from the desk. "Who was it?"

"Benton Fraser."

"The Mountie?"

As always, Ray was very much surprised that someone like Honey had heard about Fraser. The man had friends and knew people Ray would never dream of even asking for the way.

"You know him?" he asked the former prostitute.

"Yeah, everyone does. The sniper hit Fraser? Son-of-a-bitch! Listen, word on the street is that Collin McKellen is somehow involved, either dead or living. Maybe someone wanted revenge and hit the wrong guy, but if I were you I'd check out McKellen's family."

"Uh-huh. One brother, one sister. The brother is dead, the sister in N.Y. Who are you suspecting? The parents?" There was a slight sarcastic edge in his voice.

Honey was undaunted by the sarcasm. "The parent's are both dead, as far as I know." She grabbed a broom. "But I heard that the sister returned some months ago, checked in with her former friends and some guys who knew her brother. She was pretty mad when McKellen got arrested, Y'know, and I guess she's even more furious that he's dead now."

"So? I didn't kill him."

"No, you only arrested him," the blonde affirmed, but there was a strange tone to her voice.

"Thanks, Honey. You've been a real help. Just one more thing: could you try and find out where Chrisitne is staying, now that she's back?"

"No problem, Vecchio. I'll even give you a discount for the overtime work." She eyed him closely. "You look like you haven't slept at all, Vecchio. Want a drink? It's on the house."

The offer was tempting, but he was no use to Fraser if he was drunk. "Thanks, but no thanks, Honey. I need a clear head if I want to find the guy who did it."

Ray said his good-bye and left the bar again. It was time he looked after Diefenbaker.

 

*

 

Fraser's small apartment was empty except for a fridge, a table, a bed and some chairs. Since he had rented the apartment he had acquired some more furniture than there had originally been, mostly through neighbors who had had a heart and given the Mountie some things he might need. There was no security lock on the door -- it had been stolen some weeks ago, but Fraser had never been robbed -- there was nothing valuable to steal anyway.

Diefenbaker lay on the bed, head between his paws, looking sad and mournful. Ray saw the remnants of the wolf's food. So Willie had been here yesterday to take care of Dief. The had not even taking much convincing to take care of the wolf. He was taking him out once in a while anyway when Fraser had a late shift. There was a note attached to the fridge, telling Ray that Willie would come by after school and walk Diefenbaker.

"Hey, Dief," the police officer greeted the white wolf. He had brought him back to the apartment after picking him up from the hospital, leaving him in the apartment, windows closed.

A whine was the answer.

"I know it's kinda lonely here, but I can't take you along." He looked directly at the animal. "And I can't take you with me to the hospital either. No animals allowed in there. Sorry."

A barked growl.

"I promise to drop in if I can, Dief. And Willie will be back this afternoon." Vecchio walked over to the bed and glanced at the night stand. There was a small, black book beside the lamp and Ray recognized one of the diaries of Robert Fraser, Ben's father. Ben liked to read in his father's diaries once in a while, saying that through them he got to know the man he had never known. The Chicagoan took the book out of a sudden idea and dropped it into his coat's pocket. Then he turned to Diefenbaker.

"Had breakfast yet?"

Another growl.

"Okay, I'll do breakfast. Lemme see what I can find." The detective went over to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets, coming up with a pack of dry dog food. "Aha." He took the bowl on the floor and cleaned it. "Here we go, Dief," he announced and poured the stuff into a bowl, then putting it one the floor.

Diefenbaker eyed the bowl with distaste written clearly all over his face.

"What's wrong? That's dog food. It's good."

The wolf growled again.

"No, you don't get any donuts from me -- or Willie. That's breakfast, like it or not." Ray dumped the empty bag into the trash can while Dief sniffed at the dry food and snorted. Then he walked over to the bed, jumped on it and lay down.

"Be a good boy and stay in here. No walking around outside. If Animal Control gets you I might not be able to bail you out. Remember your little trip with Maggie? It might happen again."

There was a disappointed growl, that changed into a whine. The wolf dropped his head back between his paws again. Ray heaved a sigh. He began to understand Fraser's problems with Diefenbaker. The wolf liked to pout.

"See ya, Dief," he called and then left the apartment again.

 

*

 

"Detective Vecchio," Dr. Bregman greeted the tired man and shook his hand.

"Hello, Doc. I just wanted to drop by and see how Ben's doing."

"No changes at all, detective, he's still critical" the surgeon said and shook his head. "We're still keeping an eye on him and he is still on IV fluids; that's all we can do. The rest is up to him."

"Can I see him?" Ray looked pleadingly at him.

Bregman frowned, then nodded. "I'll inform the nurse. Just follow me."

Arriving at the P.C.U Ray dressed in the lab coat again and covered his shoes, then opened the door. There was another nurse than the last time at the monitoring station. Fraser was still the only occupant of the station and he looked as pale and fragile as before. Ray breathed deeply and then walked over to the bed, hands placed on the metal reeling again.

"Hey, Fraser," he greeted him, trying to sound his usual casual self. It failed miserably. He slumped down on the chair standing beside the bed. "I've been looking for the shooter," he said after some seconds of silence. "I think I have a lead, but I could really use your help. You'd have solved that case in no time." He grinned humorlessly. "You might have found a crumb of dirt and from the taste of it identified the sniper's shoe salesman."

There was no reaction from the Canadian and Ray closed his eyes for a second, feeling utterly tired.

"My lead on that sonofabitch is a guy named Collin McKellen," he went on, intent on telling the unconscious man what he had found out. "I busted him three years ago for dealing with drugs and weapons. He was put behind bars for the rest of his life, but he died a month ago. Suicide. Ballistics identified the markings on the bullet and they looked like the markings we have on bullets found after the shoot-out we had before we arrested McKellen. The weapon was destroyed and McKellen is dead." Ray raked his fingers through his hair. "The funny thing is that my contact says that McKellen might still be involved. Either dead or still alive." His eyes found not a single muscle spasm in Fraser's chalky face. "I'll keep on it .... By the way, don't worry about your wolf. I told Willie to come by now and then and look after him. He's in good hands."

Still no reaction. Fraser's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm and the IV dripped on.

"Damnit, Ben, if you hear me, twitch a muscle!" Vecchio commanded.

Again, no reaction. Not even a soft sigh. The Mountie lay motionlessly. Ray heaved a heartfelt sigh, rubbing his aching head and neck.

The gentle voice of the nurse broke into his one-sided conversation with Fraser.

"I have to ask you to go now, Mr. Vecchio." She gave him an apologetic smile.

Ray smiled back. "No problem." He stood and, after a last glance, left. Outside he leaned against the wall, drawing another deep breath. His knees felt like rubber and his hands were shaking. _Damnit, pull yourself together!_ But the fear for Fraser remained. After a minute he rubbed his tired eyes and got rid of the hospital clothes he had to wear. On the way out he discovered Bregman.

"Call me immediately when he wakes up," he told the surgeon.

The man nodded. "Sure. We expect him to come around today. The anesthetic has worn off and he's reacting quite well to the transfusions. If he stabilizes further we transfer him to one of the regular stations, but keep on checking on him."

"Thanks, doc." With that Vecchio left the hospital.

 

*

 

He swam in a grey sea of nothingness. There was no light, no shadow, no pain, no nothing.

Pain.

A faint memory of pain stole itself upon him and he looked down his body -- only to stop in surprise. He had no body. But the memory of pain remained.

Pain and the voice of a friend.

Puzzled he tried to drag more of the memory of whatever it was where they were coming from.

A reflection in the window.

Pain.

A reflection, a cry of warning.

Pain.

A shot.

Incredible, unbelievable pain.

Someone called his name, begged him to hold on. The same voice was out there now, somewhere in the greyness, still begging, still calling, shouting. With an effort he tried to move from where he was and get to the voice. He wanted to know the one who called him. But he couldn't move. Everytime he tried the pain increased. It was like a living barrier between him and the voice.

Weak.

Tired.

Sleep.

The greyness around him was oppressive. he fought against the ever tightening walls of grey against grey, but it was a fight he was loosing. He was too weak, too tired. The pain was omnipresent.

He slipped back into nothingness, his awareness fading.

Sleep.

 

*

 

Ray came back to the precinct to witness one of the many quarrels between gang members, who had just been arrested, and the arresting officers. He made his way safely to his desk to find a note from Elaine.

'Honey called. Check Christine.'

Frowning, Vecchio sat down. It wouldn't get him anywhere to ask Elaine what that meant. Honey was one of those contacts who never talked to anyone but the man they more or less trusted. He stood again and got himself a cup of that terrible black stuff they called coffee in here. After some sips he felt a bit revived, but was far from his usual state of alertness.

"Vecchio!" the roar of the chief echoed through the squad room. "In my office!"

Ray heaved a sigh and followed the order.

"Yes, sir?" he asked cautiously, looking at the ill-tempered face of Lt. Welsh.

"I heard you spent the night down in Ballistics," the older man began with a scowl. "And now I see you're in again, working on a case I pulled you off yesterday. And I also see no report about the incident on my desk."

"Uhm, sorry sir. I ... I just came back from the hospital and I had to ..."

The deep frown on the lieutenant's forehead made him stop. "How's Fraser?" Welsh asked gruffly.

"He's not yet conscious, but the doc thinks he might pull through if he stabilizes."

"Good. Now to that report....."

"You'll have it today, sir"

"I want it within the next hour, Vecchio. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

"And you're off this case, understood? It means there will be no more researching Fraser's shooting. That's the job of Gardino and Huey. They're waiting for your report, too. Everything you know, they need to know. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Ray looked down on the floor, studying his feet.

"I understand your ambitions in this, detective," Welsh added, his voice a bit calmer and really understanding. "But these ambitions can be very dangerous, since you're too close to the victim. I need an officer who's detached enough to be of use."

"Yes, sir," Ray answered, subdued.

"You know the procedure, Vecchio. You've been through it often enough with family members out for revenge, or other officers whose partners had been wounded or killed."

"Yes, sir."

The lieutenant coughed, then raised an eyebrow, steepling his fingers. "What did you find out?" he then asked, startling Ray with the question.

"Well, uhm, Larry from Ballistics thinks that the bullet was fired from a handmade weapon, something special and unique. I found some leads, but I'm not yet sure I'm on the right track."

"Any names?"

Vecchio shrugged. "Someone I put behind bars years ago. Collin McKellen."

"McKellen? Drugs and weapons dealer, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well?" Welsh lifted both eyebrows.

"He committed suicide a few days ago. Dead end." Ray sounded very subdued now.

The lieutenant nodded. "Okay, type that report and then **get off the case**! And, Vecchio?"

Ray, who was already at the door, turned. "Yes?"

"Get some sleep and a change of clothes. You look like a wino."

Ray grimaced and left. He was sure he looked bad. He hadn't had the time to shave and his clothes were rumpled. But he had too much to do. He wouldn't let the sniper get away, even if it wasn't his case anymore. His looks could wait.

"Hey, Vecchio!" The damned cheerful voice of Louis Gardino intruded into his thoughts and he looked up, bracing himself for the confrontation with his colleague.

Gardino stood out like a paradise bird in a flock of blackbirds. His bright yellow and orange Hawaii shirt and the dark blue jacket were in complete opposite to his black trousers. The grin on his face, mocking and malicious, did nothing to his overall appearance. His partner appeared downwardly moderately dressed, with a dark suit and a white shirt.

"What?" Ray snarled.

"Uh, touchy, aren't we?" The curly-haired detective grinned even more, abominably happy. "Did the lieutenant rip your butt off for still being on the case? **Our** case?" he taunted Vecchio.

"Get lost!" Ray hissed, his whole posture radiating a warning for the other man, a warning someone shouldn't ignore. Pressure was piling up inside of him and it wouldn't take much more to make him strike out. And if Gardino was the next best target, even better.

"Uh-unh. Not before I see the report we were promised. Well, Vecchio, where is it?" Gardino went on, overlooking the signs of danger.

"I'll nail it to your head if you don't get outta here in the next five seconds." Ray stared at the other man, his face holding a dangerous look. "This is my case!"

"Temper, temper. You're off the case, remember? We're the ones investigating the shooting." Gardino grinned again.

Before Ray could do something he might or might not regret later, Gardino's partner Jack Huey stepped in. He gave Ray an half-apologetic, half-sympathetic look, then pulled his partner away from him.

"Let's go and get some coffee," he simply said.

Gardino gave Ray a last look, then shrugged and went to the day-room where the coffee machine stood.

Huey stayed a moment longer, looking like he wanted to say something, then he simply sighed and followed his partner.

Ray gritted his teeth and sat down at his desk. His hands trembled, he noted, and he pressed them down hard on the desk. He hated Gardino, he really did. Who was that guy anyway? A cheap detective with a bad taste in clothing, that was him, yeah. And he was Ray Vecchio, with a Mountie partner who was lying in the hospital. And he was involved.

 _Yeah, involved. Which means it's my case! Don't you dare cross my path, Smarty. Don't you dare!_

"Are you okay?" Elaine's voice intruded into his thoughts.

He looked up, blinking. "Yeah," he then muttered, shuffling through his papers. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Elaine held out a cup of coffee, from the coffee shop down at the corner. He gave her a quizzical look.

"You look like you need it," she said with a shrug.

"Thanks," he muttered and took the cup.

"Don't mention it." She sat down on the chair normally occupied by Fraser when he visited Ray. "Didn't go well with the lieutenant, huh?"

He gave her a dry grin. "That's a way to put it. I'm lucky he didn't throw me out of the office head first." He rubbed his face, feeling incredibly tired and old.

"Go home and take a shower, Ray," the civilian aid told him softly. "You can't help Fraser if you are in such a shape."

There was a sharp retort on his lips, but he bit it down. "Yeah," he only muttered. "But I've something else to do first." He grabbed one of the manila folders and opened it.

Elaine sighed, but said nothing, simply stood and went back to her desk.

Shutting out the noise, Ray concentrated on the printed files from this morning. Maybe he could find something else on the possible weapon. It must be one like McKellen's to leave nearly identical marks. Who had built the weapon that had been confiscated from McKellen? McKellen himself? Someone else? Had he bought it from someone? With those questions to answer he dived into the print-outs again.

 

 

Only a few minutes later Ray stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in surprise. He was reading the file on Collin McKellen and had just now stumbled over something that got his attention. Right here in Chicago. Honey had told him to check on Christine. Why hadn't he thought about checking the family much sooner? His muddled brain held no answer.

"Elaine?" Ray walked over to the dark-skinned woman.

"Yes?"

"Could you run a check on Christine McKellen please? Here's the file on her brother. Get me everything you can find."

"You think she's involved?" Elaine took the file and glanced at it.

Vecchio shrugged. "Maybe. I have to follow every lead."

"Okay, I'll check it." Her fingers danced over the keyboard and minutes later she came up with some of the wanted information.

"Christine McKellen, 29, status: not married, last known address: 1271 Denver Rd." Elaine Besbriss looked up into the grim face of Ray Vecchio. "That's all we have, Ray. There's a short note that she left Chicago."

Vecchio sighed. "Not much."

"What did you find?"

"McKellen's weapon was made by his brother Mark. He was the weapon's specialist with the knowledge to build that thing. He wasn't arrested because he was terminally ill. Cancer. Died three months after we arrested his brother. He O.D.'d."

"So he couldn't have built the weapon," Elaine said.

Vecchio nodded, wondering if headaches were something that could become permanent. His aunt had always complained of migraines.

"Correct. But someone, with the same skills, built one. And Christine might give me a clue. I just need to find her." He turned to go. "If the lieutenant asks, tell him ... I'm at home or somewhere." Ray made a vague gesture towards Welsh's office. "Or just tell him you don't know." He shrugged. "Your choice."

Elaine smiled. "I'll think of some excuse why you didn't deliver your report to him. And I try to get a reasonable lie together as to whether you're still on the case, right?"

Ray gave her a thankful smile and sneaked out of the precinct.

 

*

 

Ray used a pay-phone to get in contact with Honey again. He didn't want to risk it that the lieutenant saw him at his desk. To his great surprise and relief Honey had found out where the sister of McKellen lived now and he wrote down the address. He finally had a real lead.

 

*

 

521 John's Road was a run-down hotel. Ray had no problem whatsoever to bribe the guy behind the reception desk to tell him which room Christine McKellen occupied. He went up the stairs, climbing over drunks and drug-heads, evading two prostitutes trying to get very personal, and finally stood in front of room 12. He knocked. When there was no answer he knocked again. After he again heard no answer he tried to open the door. It was locked, but he convinced the door to open after he kicked at it.

The door swung open, revealing one of the worst holes Ray had ever seen. He couldn't believe that someone lived here. But someone evidently did. Cautiously the police officer entered the room and looked around. There were a few personal things strewn on the table and he walked over to look at them. One was a weapons magazine. Vecchio frowned. Then he began to search the room. The first thing he found was a crumbled piece of paper in one corner of the room, close to the trash can. He took it, smoothed the paper and then read over it.

 

Dear Ms McKellen, the letter began, the words printed, not handwritten. We are sorry to have to tell you the sad news that your brother Collin McKellen died last week, at the 25th of July. He was found dead in the shower room by one of the guards. The cause of death was massive blood loss. He died by his own hands.

The body can be claimed at the prison morgue. An authopsy has been done to ascertain the cause of death.

 

There was a signature under the short, somewhat cold sentences and the letter head was the one of the state prison. Ray crumbled the letter again and threw it on the table. Then he resumed his search for any clues. The letter was nothing more than a confirmation that he was searching the right room.

As he looked under the bed his eyes widened. There was a plastic bag stowed in a shoe box and the bag was full of bullets. He pulled out the box and took the bag, eyeing the bullets. Where there were bullets, there was most likely a weapon. Out of intuition he drew back the covers of the bed and stiffened. There was a rifle hidden under the covers. It looked not like one of the regulars he knew. Carefully, Ray picked it up. It wasn't heavy.

Suddenly there were footsteps. The detective barely had time to put down the weapon when the door opened and he stood face-to-face with a dark-haired woman. It was Christine McKellen, as Ray recognized from the picture in the computer. Her eyes widened as she saw the man in her room and before Ray could say anything or at least identify himself she had pulled out a weapon and aimed it at him.

He dove for cover.

Two shots rang through the cheap hotel, chipping away wood from the overturned table Ray had taken refuge behind. He pulled his gun, ready to return fire.

"Police!" he yelled, following the rule that every police officer had to identify himself in situations like that.

Another shot was the answer.

"Looks like she doesn't like me very much," he muttered to no one specific.

Then he heard her running away from him. Cautiously he peered over the rim of his protective table wall. The woman had disappeared. He heard someone pounding up the stairs and gave pursuit. Some of the winos staggered around in the shabby corridor and Ray saw the door to the roof swing shut. Without hesitation he followed.

Ray was not exactly a man who loved heights. He remembered one time he had chased a pick-pocket by jumping from roof to roof; that had been enough. Well, if you looked at it closely it had been Fraser chasing the boy, and he had chased Fraser, trying to keep up with the Canadian. Vecchio always wondered whether he worked out or not. That guy was incredibly agile and fast. But right now he had other things to worry about. Like Christine McKellen.

The roof was flat and there was only one place to hide behind and that was the ventilation housing. He crouched down in the doorway and scanned the roof. There was nothing else up here to take cover behind and the woman wasn't on the next room either.

A shot rang and chipped away stone close to his position. Ray crouched down even further and aimed at the ventilation housing, firing. The bullet richoted off the steel housing with no further effect. Another three shots answered him.

"Ms McKellen!" he yelled. "You don't have a chance. Why don't you give up?"

"And sent to prison for life?" she shouted back, laughing humorlessly. She fired again, then, as Ray had to stay down, she darted away from the cover. She ran like chased by hellhounds and jumped the distance between this roof and the next. Ray cursed under his breath, giving chase. He wasn't exactly ready to do such a dare-devil stunt as to jump over roofs, but he did it anyway, the picture of the shot Mountie driving him. But Ray had miscalculated his jump. He missed the other roof by a mere inch, his feet slipping and his hands flailing. He caught the edge of the roof, holding on for dear life and struggling to get up, cursing all the way.

"Shit-shit-shit-shit," he repeated again and again, breathing hard as he tried to get solid ground under his feet again.

He finally made it up on the roof, stillpanting, lying there for just a minute to catch his breath. When he looked up, Christine McKellen had disappeared. With a frustrated sigh he stood, brushing dust off his suit and wincing as his hands told him he had cut them. He went back to McKellen's room. At least he had the rifle and the bullets. Maybe ballistics could tell him whether this was the weapon Fraser had been shot with or not.

 

*

 

Ray dropped off the rifle and the bullets in Larry's department and left the ballistics expert with specific instructions to call him the second he knew anything. He then put out an APB on Christine McKellen, informing every patrol unit to keep an eye open and not arrest her under any circumstances, just report her whereabouts. She was armed and dangerous and if someone was to arrest her, it was him. This was personal. Maybe she even had friends who had helped her. If so, he wanted to know it.

About half an hour later Larry called. Ray was just typing a few lines for a preliminary report he had promised Welsh nearly a day before. The lieutenant wasn't in right now and Ray needed some time off from him, so he had decided to give Welsh some news. Not too much, of course.

"Yes?" he answered.

"This is Larry. Listen, the rifle and the bullets you brought down ...?"

"Yeah?"

"The rifle matches the one that must have fired the first bullet. All the five bullets I fired in the last minutes show the same marks. It's definitely the one."

Ray's knuckles whitened as he gripped the receiver even harder. "Any ident numbers on the rifle?" he wanted to know.

"No, nothing. It's a special weapon, too light for regular models. And you can take it apart until it's small enough to carry around without someone noticing it. It's even better than the ones our guys use. Remarkable craftsmanship."

"Any prints on it?"

"Only yours and the ones from Christine McKellen."

"Thanks, Larry. I owe you for that fast work."

"Hey," Larry said lightly. "It's for Fraser."

Ray only nodded, though he knew Hamilton couldn't see it. Then he put the receiver back in the cradle. Staring at the half typed report he tried to think of a way to get Christine McKellen. Her prints were on the weapon. She had hidden it in her room. She had fled when she had seen him. He flashed back to the moment where she came in and stared at him, eyes widening.

 _It wasn't the fact that she was surprised to see **someone** in her room. She was surprised to see me. She knows me!_ Ray felt cold inside. Christine had recognized him as the cop who had arrested her brother. But why try to kill him now? Her brother had committed suicide!

"Don't look in any mirrors, Vecchio," Elaine Besbriss interrupted his train of thoughts. "They might crack."

He smiled wryly. "Thanks a lot. Where's Welsh?"

"Out for lunch with some guy from the mayor's office. Business. You'd better get him his report and then freshen up. When he didn't find the report on his desk this afternoon he had one of his bad moods again. You know." Elaine shrugged.

"Yeah, I know. I'll give him one in the next ten minutes."

"And then you'll go home, take a shower and a nap."

"You're not my mother, Elaine," Ray snapped. "Besides, I've a lead to follow."

"The lead will still be there when you're done transforming yourself into a human being again, Vecchio. You look like shit." Elaine looked at him, not the least intimidated by his cold stare.

He rubbed his eyes. "Okay, okay, a shower. Did the hospital call?"

She shook her head. "No change, huh?"

Ray shook his head. "No." With that he typed half-heartedly at his report. After a few more lines he pulled out the page and signed it. "Give that to the lieutenant, will ya?"

Elaine scanned the page, then frowned. "And be decapitated? No way. I'm not suicidal. That's no report, that's nothing at all."

The detective grabbed his coat. "Thanks, Elaine," he called. Then he was gone.

The dark-skinned civilian aid sighed and walked into the empty office cubicle of their lieutenant, placing the report on the table. Vecchio was in for trouble, but then -- he always was.

 

*

 

Ray stopped by his place and took a shower. It wasn't that he did it out of vanity of looks. He needed something to refresh him and a shower sounded good. As he looked into the mirror a tired, worn face with deep set brown eyes looked back at him. He grinned a bit.

"Hey, stranger," he muttered. "I don't know you, but I'll shave you anyway."

After shaving he looked a bit more human, but he didn't feel it. The knowledge that the bullet Fraser had intercepted had been meant for him weighed him down. It should have been him. He should be lying in that hospital and Fraser should be after the sniper. He would have found Christine McKellen right away. Ben had a completely different approach to things, which mostly had to do with his different upbringing and his former work as a Mountie in the wilderness of Canada. Now that he was in a big city didn't necessarily mean that he would change his investigation methods, though sniffing at dirt or tasting it was utterly disgusting, as Ray always lamented.

As he was drying his hair, the phone rang. Ray went over and picked it up.

"Yeah? .... Hello, Ma ... Yes, Ma. ...... No, there is no change .... no, Francesca won't even have a chance to get close to him. He's in Intesive Care. ..... yes, try to talk her out of it ..... yes ... yes ... of course I can ..... Ciao, Ma." He hung up again, shaking his head. A few seconds later the phone rang again. He picked it up, expecting his mother. It wasn't her.

"Detective Vecchio, this is Dr. Bregman," the voice of the doctor came over the phone.

"Hey, Doc, how's it going? How's Ben?"

"That's why I'm calling you, Detective." The way he said it made Vecchio feel cold inside again. "We had to go in again because he started to bleed. We found that the wound had opened again and closed it. He's stabile now, but still critical. I thought you wanted to know."

"Thank you," Ray answered numbly, feeling nothing at all now.

"His chances are increasing, detective," Bregman added as if he could see the shocked face of the police officer. "I'm pretty sure he'll be out of the worst tonight."

Ray put down the receiver, not even knowing that he did it. The numbness spread to his legs and he sat down heavily on the bed.

"You can't die on me, Fraser," he whispered to no one specific, feeling like he was dying right now, piece by piece.

His eyes fell on the diary he had taken with him from Fraser's apartment. It had fallen out of his coat's pocket. He picked it up and slumped down on the bed, leafing through the book. His eyes fell on a chapter, scrawled down in quite readable handwriting.

Feb, 22nd:

My partner Dave Yearwood was hit by a bullet today. We were chasing a smuggler and he led us into a trap. Dave saved my butt by shoving me out of the way and catching the bullet himself. I shot the smuggler in the leg in return. Dave was really bad off and I had no way of knowing if he'd make it or not. I carried him back to the dog slay and put him inside, leaving that smuggler where he was. He could be picked up later. With that leg he wouldn't get far and he wasn't badly enough wounded to die in the next hour or so.

The doctor told me that Dave was a lucky man. The bullet didn't hit any vital organs however he had lost a lot of blood. Dave is a bear of a man and I am sure he'll pull through.

Feb. 24th:

I visited Dave today and he was wide awake and already complaining that he wanted to get out of the hospital. I was so relieved to see him alive and well. I would never have forgiven myself if he had died because of me. That bullet had been meant for me, not him. He had saved my life.

Ray put down the diary, closing his eyes tiredly. It looked like Daddy Fraser had been through the same, but his friend had not been as close to death as Benton Fraser was now. If he died because of Ray .... he didn't want to think about it.

Without even wanting to, Vecchio slid further down on the bed's headrest and his eyes drooped. He had been without sleep for ... too long. His body couldn't work any longer under those conditions and decided to take an emergency break.

One minute later Ray was fast asleep.

 

*

 

The insistent ringing of the phone woke Ray two hours later. He startled awake, looking around in confusion. Then he remembered where he was and that he should have gone back to the precinct hours ago.

"Yeah?" he asked as he held the phone's receiver to his ear, his voice a bit blurred from sleep. He looked at the alarm clock at his bed-side. It was close to six p.m. He had slept for nearly two hours!

"Ray, it's Elaine. You'd better be down here in the next coupla minutes or suspension is the last you've to worry about."

"Welsh?" he ventured a guess.

"Who else?"

Ray sighed and put the receiver back on the cradle. "Guess I'm in big trouble again," he muttered, which was nothing new. But this time there was no Mountie accompany him and face the lieutenant's wrath. Ray felt oddly secure when Fraser stood with him while the lieutenant pointed out is incapabilities to do his job properly.

After a quick change of clothes he drove over to the precinct. As he walked through the corridors to Welsh's office he thought the others looked at him with the morbid fascination of spectators watching a man sentenced to death while he was on his way to the death chamber. Drawing a deep breath he stepped into the office cubicle.

"Shut the door," Welsh commanded calmly; too calmly, like the calmness before the storm hits.

Ray complied. As he turned he thought he winced a bit as he saw a dark cloud hovering over the lieutenant's head, ready to start thunder and lightning every second. It was the moment before the storm.

The heavy-set man, a deliberate neutral expression on his face,  was holding a piece of paper, which Ray identified as his report.

"I found that," Welsh held up the report with two fingers, "on my desk when I came in. What do think it is?" He lifted one eyebrow.

"A report?" Ray hazarded carefully.

"A report? So this is a report?" Harding Welsh gave the piece of paper an astonished look, like he saw something like this for the very first time. "Never would have guessed." He put it down and glowered at the hapless police officer.

Ray shrank back a bit, not moving physically, but still removing himself a bit out of the other man's presence.

"Your signature is on that 'report', Vecchio. I thought you knew how to do something as simple as a police report on a case. Looks like you don't. What the hell where you thinking when you put that on my desk? I wanted a full report on what had happened!"

Ray gulped. "I ...." he began.

"If I may recite from you 'report'," Welsh's voice had the characteristic sarcastic tone he always held when talking to someone he thought was a complete fool. "'While exiting Joan's Place, Constable Fraser discovered a sniper on the roof opposite the coffee shop and was shot.'" The lieutenant looked ready to explode. "Is that all you have to say?"

Ray didn't answer and it wasn't really necessary.

"Since I didn't get anything from you and since you didn't back off the case as I ordered, I asked around," Welsh began. "Larry Hamilton was a very talkative man, Detective Vecchio. We have a bullet and a rifle to match it. We have a suspect and an address. As far as I heard we even found the rifle in the suspect's possession. So .... where the hell is that sniper?"

"She escaped, sir," Ray dared the wrath of the lieutenant.

The black cloud over Welsh's head started to rumble in anticipation of loosening a few rounds of thunder and lightning on the man in front of it.

"Oh, she **escaped**? And you put an APB out on her, didn't you? But not to arrest her, just to report her whereabouts."

Ray nodded meekly. The lieutenant had done a good piece of work on following him.

"What the hell where you thinking, Vecchio?" Welsh exploded and Ray expected the blinds to incinerate and the window to explode into the squad room. "She is a suspect! She shot a man in bright daylight! We have the weapon, we have the bullet, we have her! I want to know right here and now why you didn't report any of this to me! What the hell were you doing? This is not your case anymore!"

Ray's mind whirled. He could no longer keep all of this a secret.

"I'm waiting," the older man growled.

Ray licked his lips. "The sniper, Christine McKellen, wasn't after Constable Fraser, sir."

"So she was shooting at anything that moved?"

"No, she was aiming at me. Constable Fraser shoved me out of the way and this way caught the bullet himself." Ray's voice trembled ever so slightly as his mind supplied him with a full color version of that moment, complete with stereo sound effects.

Welsh leaned forward, his eyes fixing Ray where he was. "She was aiming at you?"

"I arrested her brother three years ago. He committed suicide a month ago. An informer on the street told me that Collin McKellen was somehow involved in this, dead or alive. And the informer also told me to check out Christine McKellen. The weapon I found matches the one we destroyed after we arrested her brother."

"And after you found all that out you couldn't just write a report and tell me, could you?" Anger swung in the voice.

"I wasn't sure at first....."

"But now you are?"

"Well, I found the rifle and I think Christine McKellen recognized me when she entered her room."

"You searched her room without a warrant?" Welsh exploded again and there was no hoping that no one in the squad room would not hear him.

"Uhm, yes, sir," was the soft answer.

"If I may remind you, you're off the case, Vecchio!"

"You have to give it back to me!" Ray demanded. "I can solve it. Clever and Smart won't do anything and McKellen escapes!"

"See the writing on the door?" Welsh asked sarcastically. "It says 'lieutenant', which means I'm the one to make decisions around here, Detective. Back off the case, Vecchio."

"The hell I will," Ray snapped, lack of sleep and the constant stress and deep worry seeking an outlet. "It's **my** case. That is my friend lying shot in the hospital because of me. It's me she's after. I won't let Clever and Smart take over and maybe loose McKellen forever. She's out there and waiting. And I'm gonna find her!"

"Watch your tone, Detective Vecchio!" Welsh shot back. "If you don't get off this case, I'm gonna see to it that you're suspended from duty, if it is that what you need."

Ray stared at him, dark eyes aflame with anger. How could he dare .....? "If that's what you want," he whipped out his police batch and weapon, "then that's what you get, **lieutenant**." He banged both down on the table, whirled around and left the office.

"Vecchio!"

The lieutenant's shout rang through the corridors, but Ray didn't hear it. He stormed out of the office, not minding the knowing looks of his colleagues. This was his case, he wouldn't let it get taken away from him. He'd find Christine McKellen -- even if it was the last thing he'd ever do.

 

*

 

The hospital was quiet since visitor hours had ended. Ray Vecchio went over to the reception desk of the emergency unit and asked for Dr. Bregman.

"He's just about to go home," the nurse explained, recognizing Ray from his previous visit. "I see if I can get him."

And Bregman really appeared about ten minutes later, already dressed to go home.

"I don't want to keep you from anything, doc," Ray began, but Bregman just shook his head.

"No problem. You're here because of your friend?"

Ray nodded.

"Well, we transferred him to the Intensive Care Unit now. The surgery we had to do was minor compared to the one before. He's okay now and we won't have further complications."

"Doc, I know that visitor hours are over, but ... can I see him?"

Bregman gave the tired looking and a bit dissheveled police officer a questioning look. "You'd better go and see a bed, detective. And some time soon," he advised.

"Yeah, yeah, right." Ray waved the helpful advice aside.

Bregman shrugged and led him over to the intensive care station. This time there was no nurse in the same room, but the nurses' station was very close by. There were small cubicles witch large, Plexiglas screens and two beds each. The surgeon nodded to the nurse at the station that this visit was okay and she returned to her duties.

"Don't make it too long. Nurse Thierolf might throw you out." He smiled a bit.

Vecchio nodded and entered the cubicle. As before Fraser was the only occupant. The machines he was connected to were silent, not a single beep coming from them.

"Hey, Fraser," the detective greeted his partner. "I heard you gave the doctor a bit of trouble." He reached for a chair and sat down beside the bed, sighing. "The lieutenant suspended me from duty today," he said after some time, his eyes fixed on the white sheet covering the Mountie. "Well, okay, that's a bit wrong. He gave me a choice: let Clever and Smart take over or be taken off by force." A humorless smile crossed Ray's lips. "You know how stubborn and temperamental we Italians can be. I gave him my badge and gun, and left. I know, I know -- you wouldn't have done that. But it was the only way I saw and I took it."

There was a movement. Ray thought he could see a muscle twitch in the chalky white face and he leaned forward. "Fraser?" he asked softly.

No reaction.

He sighed again. "I found the sniper, I think. Her name's Christine McKellen, the sister of Collin McKellen. I can't believe that she's the one." Vecchio shook his head. "There's an APB out on her and I'm after her wherever she goes."

Again no reaction.

"Dief's okay, but I think he's bored. Maybe I should try showing him Lassie videos again, but then ... he might bite me if I do. And I think Willie's feeding him fast food again. I know you don't like it, but ..... well, he's a Canadian in Chicago. He just wants to enjoy himself. And I promised him a burger if he left the hospital without calling Animal Control."

This time the twitch was no imagination. Fraser's eyes rolled behind closed lids and his left hand spasmned.

"Ben?" Ray asked hopefully. "Can you hear me?" He took the hand and squeezed it slightly. He felt awkward doing it, but somehow it gave him some comfort -- to feel the warmth in the lax hand. It told him Fraser was still alive in there. Somewhere. And he hoped that the contact gave the Canadian some comfort, too.

But there was again no reaction after the initial twitch. It looked like Fraser was fading in and out of consciousness. With a spark of hope starting to burn inside of him, Ray got out the diary of Robert Fraser.

"I borrowed one of your Dad's diaries, if you don't mind. I know it's personal, but .... " Ray shrugged, unable to explain why he had taken the diary. Instead he opened the book and started to read some passages out aloud. He didn't know why, but he thought Fraser might hear it and come around.

"Detective Vecchio?" the female voice startled him out of his absorbed reading.

Ray turned and saw the nurse from the station. A glance at his watch told him he had been here for over an hour.

"You have to go now, please."

"I saw him move," Ray said excitedly, putting away the book. "That's a good sign, isn't it? I thought that reading might help."

"The anesthetic has worn off and he's coming around. Dr. Bregman thinks he will drift over into normal sleep without really waking." The dark-haired woman smiled again. "And reading something familiar to him might really help, but I still have to ask you to go."

"Okay, I'm leaving. Just watch over him, okay? He's an out-of-towner."

"I will."

With that promise Ray left the hospital once more, hoping that the next time he came Fraser would be awake and aware.

 

* * *

 

The pain was somewhere far away and nearly forgotten. Instead of the pain there was a strange sense of loneliness. Wherever he was, he was alone. He couldn't see, but he could smell and feel.

He smelled disinfectant spray.

He felt the cool surface of the cover.

Hospital, his mind told him.

But he was alone.

There was no real sound.

The pain was still far away, but a voice rang through the confusion that was still inside of him. It was the familiar voice again.

Male.

Ray?

Someone touched his hand, squeezing it, but he hadn't the strength to grip it. The hand let go.

The voice told him something. It sounded familiar.

Dad?

Before he could will his body to respond to the voice, it faded. Tiredness washed over him. He felt so fatigued.

He drifted over into sleep again.

 

* * *

 

The Vecchio home was unusually quiet when Ray dropped by, bringing his mother the wanted groceries she had ordered by cellphone. It wasn't often she asked her son to pick something up for her, but it happened.

"Ray. How are you?" the stocky woman asked as she took the bags, her eyes examining him closely.

Ray blinked at her. That was a new approach. Normally his mother fussed all over him when he was home, trying to find him a date or complaining about his stressy life-style, his work, everything. Most of the times his sisters would fall into the same line and he would shout back. They would squabble back and forth until his mother cut in and demanded peace. The worried question made him uncomfortable.

"Fine, Ma," he answered vaguely.

"I can see that," she remarked with a dry look and placed the bags on the table, beginning to unpack. "How is Benton?"

Ray flinched and avoided her eyes. "Still unconscious," he said. He cleared his throat. "They had to go in again because he started to bleed."

Her back stiffened a bit, but she kept on removing the cans and other groceries from the bag without a second of hesitation.

"The doctors say we have to wait," he added.

"You've never been the most patient child when it came to waiting." Mrs. Vecchio put the eggs into the fridge. "And you've always been more than closemouthed when it came to something that bothered you."

Ray looked at her back. "What are you talking about, Ma?" he wanted to know, already guessing what she was getting at.

"You're worried about Fraser." She turned, facing him.

"Of course I'm worried about Fraser! He's a friend and colleague!" he said in a more defensive way than he wanted to.

His mother smiled. "Yes, he is. A very good friend, Ray." The smile unnerved him, as much as the knowing look in her eyes. "He's gotten closer to you than many, hasn't he? Now you're worried and you don't want anyone to know. Ray, it's okay to feel like that."

No, it wasn't. Not for him. He didn't want the feeling. He didn't want to worry about a wounded partner.

"It shouldn't have been him!" Ray exclaimed, clenching his hands into fists. "The bullet was meant for me! It should have been me!"

She walked up to him, placing a hand on his arm. "Ray, stop that," she commanded, squeezing his arm. "It happened and you can't change it. I know how you feel about it. I remember how you felt when Harry was shot."

Ray flinched violently now, all to clear remembering the incident, too.  Harry had been his first partner, someone he had liked immensely; someone he had trusted completely. Someone who had died because he had caught a bullet meant for Ray.

"You won't help Benton if you keep on blaming yourself," his mother continued. "It will take you apart. I know the signs and I know how it will end if you do that to you."

He bit his lip, evading her eyes. He felt anger rise inside of him again. But why was he angry? Because Fraser had saved his life? Yes, maybe. But most likely because someone had been willing to sacrifice his life for that of Ray Vecchio. Fraser was different from his other colleagues; something he had realized a long time ago. Not because he was Canadian; not because he was a Mountie; because he didn't just tolerate him, he **accepted** him.

"I keep seeing him," he said softly as if to himself. "Lying in front of me, blood on his uniform.... It keeps coming back and I can't do anything about it. I ....." His voice caught and he clenched his hands into fists.

His mother didn't say anything, just took him into her arms. He clung to her, unable to cry, though he would have liked to, but he had no tears. After a few more seconds he detached himself, rubbing his stinging eyes.

"I ... think I should get back to work," he muttered, embarrassment flaming up inside of him. He was glad his siblings weren't home. It would have given them new things to use against him.

His mother smiled. "Yes, I think you should." She returned to her work to put the groceries away.

Ray left the kitchen and was on his way out when he discovered his younger sister Francesca standing beside the stairs to the second floor. She looked different from her usual self and it wasn't only the mute dress, a pair of jeans and a faded sweater. He noted that the bright sparkle in her eyes was no longer present, replaced by the shadows of worry and fear. He stopped, returning her look.

"How is he?" she asked after some time, her arms hugged around her body.

Ray knew that lying to her would result in false hopes, while telling the truth would only deepen the wounds. But she was his sister and someone who cared about Fraser just like he did, though for totally different reasons and out of totally different emotions.

"No change," he said, hearing his voice catch for a second. "They keep on monitoring him."

Francesca bit her lip, looking away. She liked the Mountie. Ray wasn't sure if it was more than just liking or interest in something exitingly new. She kept on pursuing Fraser with amorous intents, not the least put off by the way he tried to ignore her. That he was now lying in the hospital, closer to death than anyone wanted to admit, was nothing to shrug off lightly.

Ray came over to her, taking her into his arms just like his mother had done with him.

"He'll be all right, Franny" he tried to soothe her with words which hadn't helped him a bit. "He's stubborn, he's Canadian, he's a Mountie. He won't give up. And neither should you."

"Should we," came the muffled reply from his shoulder. Francesca pulled back, regarding him closely.

"Should we," he acknowledged, giving her a smile. "He'll make it."

"I know he will," she declared, trying not to look worried. "You know, Ray, you look like shit."

He scowled at her. "Thanks, sis, thanks very much. And to think you're a sensitive woman!"

She smiled, giving him a mock punch at the shoulder, then walked upstairs. Ray closed his eyes for a second, then pulled himself together and left the Vecchio home. There was a lot to do.

 

*

 

It was something around eight p.m. when Ray dropped by Fraser's apartment again. Diefenbaker looked up as he entered, giving a low whine and then padding over to the police officer. Vecchio ruffled the slightly brownish white fur on the broad head and smiled as Diefenbaker leaped up and down.

"Yeah, okay, you found out. I brought you some donuts." He unwrapped the sweets and Diefenbaker gulped them down. The white wolf looked up, whining.

"Fraser's okay, Dief. Don't worry. He's too Canadian to die."

He sat down on Fraser's bed and Diefenbaker jumped up, lying down beside him. Ray started to pat the dog.

"He'll be home faster than you can swallow a lasagna, Dief. And I promise that I'll get that sniper."

The wolf laid his head down on Ray's lap with a whine. Vecchio only grinned slightly.

 

*

 

When Ray parked his car outside Honey's place it was close to midnight. There were some people in the bar, but it wouldn't be crowded until two or three a.m. Honey Melrose was behind the bar, pouring drinks and making small talk. When she saw him she gave her bar tender a sign and he took over her customers.

"Hey, Vecchio, I see you had a change of clothes since I saw you last," she greeted the burned-out man.

"Ha-ha-ha, Honey. Very funny." He slumped down on one of the bar stools.

"Want a drink?"

He sighed. "Yeah, maybe a whiskey. With a lot of ice."

She gave him the wanted drink and he sipped at it.

"You gave me a tip to check out Christine McKellen," the detective finally said. "I did and found some interesting things."

She shrugged. "So?"

"She escaped. I want to know where she is." He held up a fifty-dollar note.

The former prostitute took it, again sliding it down between her breasts. "I'll have an ear open for any news. But be careful. I've heard some things about Christine McKellen and she's one vengeful woman, Vecchio."

"I want her, Honey," Ray said forcefully. "I want to see her behind bars. She shot my best friend."

She nodded. "Don't let it get personal. It clouds your judgment."

"What do **you** know about it? It **is** personal. Nothing could be more personal than someone wanting to kill you." He emptied the drink and stood. "Call me when you hear something."

Honey Melrose sighed and took the glass to clean it. "Just be careful, Vecchio," she muttered. "Just be careful."

 

*

 

Detective Raymond Vecchio drove aimlessly through the streets, his mind on where Christine McKellen could be. Honey would call him when she found something out. His other contacts where of no real help. He couldn't ask Elaine or anybody else from the precinct since he was officially suspended from duty.  It would be a good time to get some shut-eye, his mind told him.

"Good idea," he muttered and steered the Buick toward his home address.

About half an hour later he arrived and parked the car at his usual spot. Wearily he got out, locked the car and went over to the  door. He fished his keys out of his pocket and opened. As he stepped inside and was just about to close the door he thought he saw something move.

Ray turned the second as something crashed down on him. Because he had turned the heavy whatever-it-was -- it looked like a baseball bat -- hit his right shoulder. He cried out and fell down, rolling aside to get out of the way of his attacker. His left hand reached for some kind of weapon since his right arm felt numb and detached from his body. He remembered that he didn't have his gun, but his mind also told him that he owned some other guns. One was in the drawer in the little cabinet in his hallway.

The baseball bat ended the life of a lamp, the noise waking some of Ray's neighbors. Glass shreds rained over Vecchio as he crawled to the cabinet. With shaking fingers he fumbled for the drawer, opening it as the bat yet again destroyed some breakable things, searching for him in the darkness. Finally his left hand closed around the cold metal of the gun.

When he looked up from his supine position he saw the attacker, clad all in black, looming over him, the bat raised to strike again. He raised his weapon, which he held in his left hand, and tried to shoot. The bat swung down, catching his left hand. He cried in pain again as his hand was caught between a baseball bat and a hard place, so to speak. At least the wall was very unwilling to soften. He lost his weapon. Ray blinked back tears of pain and struck at the attacker with his feet, catching him square in the chest. He was rewarded with a grunt as the attacker flew backward.

The police officer staggered to his feet, his left hand ablaze with pain, his right shoulder and arm numb. But he was unwilling to let the other guy get the upper hand. And he had never known when to quit. With a strength born out of adrenaline he charged the man, tackling him around the waist. Both went down in a heap on the floor. The attacker lost his weapon, which rolled to the far end of the hallway. Ray tried to get on top to pin the man down, but a strike against his shoulder made him let go with a yelp of pain.

The attacker wriggled out from under him and fled for the still open door. Ray suddenly saw his weapon lying near by and grabbed it with his left hand. Then he aimed at the fleeing figure, firing the gun. Though Vecchio was not a sharp-shooter when using his left hand, he still hit something.

There was a cry.

Female.

Ray stared at the figure which now lay on the street, trying to crawl over to a parked car on the opposite side of the street.

Female.

Christine McKellen.

With an effort he got on his feet and staggered down the stairs and toward the attacker in black. She had nearly reached the sidewalk and the parked car. He stopped by her side, unsteady and panting.

"Hold it right there, McKellen."

The hooded head turned and the eyes glared at him. There was so much hatred in those eyes that it burned itself right through into Ray's head. She ripped the mask off and he saw her contorted features. Hatred, pure and simple hatred.

"Go to hell, Vecchio," she hissed.

"That's where you go, McKellen," Ray answered coldly, his gun still pointed at her.

"And you'll follow, murderer."

"Your brother committed suicide. I just brought him behind bars."

The glare seemed to strengthen. "He'd be alive today if you hadn't arrested him, Vecchio. He could be **alive**! You killed my brother!"

"And you nearly killed me, lady."

"Yes, **nearly**. But I heard that the man I shot instead is your best friend, Vecchio. How does it feel to loose someone you love?"

 _"Down!" Someone pushed him down on the street._

"How does it feel?"

 _"Fraser! Somebody call an ambulance!"_

"It twists inside you like a flaming sword, doesn't it?"

 _"Don't die on me, Fraser! You can't do that to me!"_

 _Blood covered his hands, his shirt, it was everywhere._

"Too bad he's still alive! Maybe that changes soon!"

Every word dripped with utter rage and hatred. She lived that anger, she fueled it with all she possessed.

"Shut up!" Ray commanded.

 _"Ray ....?"_

 _"Everything's gonna be okay ....."_

 _Blood everywhere ...._

His hand shook while he still pointed the weapon at her. Her words cut through him like a hot knife. He felt tempted to shoot. Just end it here and now. It would be all so easy. So easy .... His trigger finger moved slightly.

 _Blurred blue eyes stared at him, shock displayed deep inside._

 _"You're gonna be okay ......"_

"I'll kill you for what you did to my brother. One day you'll pay for that!" she screamed and her hand whipped up.

Ray saw something flash in the light of the street lamps.

It was the blade of a knife.

He reacted.

The sound of his gun rang in the silence of the street.

Christine McKellen's eyes widened. Then she fell back, a hole in her chest spurting blood on her black sweater.

There were sirens in the distance as Ray watched her die. Someone had called the police, his mind told him. Maybe someone had called the coroner, too. He put away the weapon, a sad look on his face as he walked away from the corps. Christine McKellen was dead, shot out of self-defense. But he didn't feel the satisfaction he thought that would come.

The first patrol car arrived.

 

* * *

 

Benton Fraser thought he was swimming through a grey fog towards sound and light. He blinked, surprised he had eyes to see. His hand closed around a blanket and the voice he had heard more than once was clearer now. He blinked again. The light became clearer, too, his vision focusing. The first he saw was a oval something. It turned out to be a face.

"Ray?"

He was horrified to hear how hoarse and weak his voice sounded, but it seemed that it was like music to his Chicagoan partner, since he started to grin like a madman.

"Benny!" he exclaimed. "You're awake!"

Fraser tried to smile, his mind registering the fact that Ray had used his nickname for him, something  only he did. Most people preferred to call him either 'Fraser' or 'Ben'.

"It seems like it," he whispered. He thought he remembered drifting in and out of sleep several times before now, but he wasn't sure. It was all a hazy mist, nothing clear and definite. He also recalled the voice he had heard. Had it been Ray, too? He thought so.

Fraser tried to move into a more comfortable position and winced.

"Don't move, Benny. You've been hit badly." Ray's face mirrored worry which he tried to hide as best as he could, and, Fraser frowned, he looked cruelly tired. There were also lines of pain etched around his mouth.

"What happened?" the Canadian asked, a bit confused. "Where am I?"

"You don't know?"

Fraser's frown deepened. His mind supplied him with some pictures he didn't like. "I .... I was shot." His blue eyes sought Ray. "I was shot at, correct? Then I must be in a hospital."

The police officer nodded. "You were hit while trying to save me. Dumb move, Benny. Really dumb move."

"But it looks like I succeeded," Fraser answered with a pleased smile.

Vecchio rubbed his eyes and winced, rubbing his right shoulder instead. As he did, Fraser discovered a white ace bandage covering Ray's wrist and hand.

"Yeah, you succeeded. And only a Mountie could get such a stupid idea! Did you learn that with the Boy Scouts? Always run into the line of fire?" Ray's hazel eyes were full of anger, directed solely at himself. "Damnit! Whatever made you pull such a stupid stunt?"

"I wanted to save your life."

The quiet statement made Ray blink. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. After another second he said: "Right, and get yourself shot down. That's the way to do it, Fraser!" The sarcasm didn't hide the worry, now that Fraser had caught him off guard with his words.

"It was the only way, Ray. Any other way might have endangered you. I couldn't risk it." Clear, blue eyes looked at him.

"I'm a cop, Fraser, remember? The guys with the guns and the handcuffs to catch the bad guys. I can watch out for myself. I don't not need a Mountie watching my back!" Ray's temper had gotten the better of him and he knew he was reacting defensively. He needed a vent for his frustrations and now he had found one.

"Isn't that what a partner is for?" There was a hurt tone in Fraser's still weak voice. "Partners watch out for each other, Ray. I just  ..... watched out for you."

"You're working for the Canadian consulate, not the Chicago police department!" Ray tried to ignore the hurt expression on Fraser's face -- which was hard to do. His mind flashed back to his blood-covered friend on the sidewalk, the pain in the blue eyes, his own pain at the sight of it.

 _Yeah, no friendship, no pain, no loss. Just me, myself and I. No one to worry about, no one to call when you needed someone to talk to, Vecchio. Now you got one, a damn good and loyal one, and all you can do is yell at him because he saved your butt._

"Then why didn't you tell me that you don't want us working together?" The soft question broke Ray out of his tirade.

The police officer stared at his friend. "What?" he croaked. "I didn't say that, Benny. I ... I ..... ahm ....like working with you." He looked down at his feet, avoiding Fraser's eyes.

"Then why are you angry that I saved you?" Fraser wanted to know. "I think you would have done the same for me."

Vecchio shrugged. "Of course, but that's completely different."

"No, it isn't."

There was a minute of silence between the two men. Suddenly Ray let out a sigh. "Listen, Ben," he said, much calmer now. "I know that you saved my life and don't think I'm not thankful. It's just that ... that ... the bullet was meant for **me**. And it nearly killed **you**. It .... upset me a bit." He stopped, not knowing what to say, and knowing that he had already said too much.

Fraser felt a bit uncomfortable, which had nothing to do with the fact that he was injured. This was getting too emotional for him too. He had never been a very out-going person where his emotions were concerned. Like Ray he tried to project another person for other people, but unlike Ray he succeeded. Well, most of the time. There were situations where he, too, was caught off guard and showed his emotions quite clearly.

"How's Diefenbaker?" he asked, trying to stear the conversation away from home turf.

"Oh, he's fine. Willie's looking after him." Vecchio shrugged, unsure himself. Like Fraser he knew that the last few minutes had shown much of the other man's true self. And both felt awkward and not quite comfortable with it. Fraser knew him better than anyone, had done so since their first meeting when the Mountie had blown an investigation -- which had been Ray's luck since the 'suspect' turned out to be a police officer himself, setting a trap for Vecchio.

Fraser sighed, closing his eyes, his head beginning to ache a bit.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." He opened his eyes. There was hidden worry on Ray's face again. You could see it in his eyes, though he tried to project an aura of casualness. "Who was the sniper?"

Ray's face clouded. "A woman named Christine McKellen. I arrested her brother three years ago and he got sentenced for life. He committed suicide a month ago. She went on a vengeance trip because she thought me responsible for his death." He wouldn't mention the fact that he hadn't shot her while fulfilling his duty as a police officer, but as a civilian. He might not even mention the fact that he had been suspended from duty because he had been unwilling to give up the case. Welsh had been quite calm when he had reported in, telling him the fact that Christine was dead, shot out of self-defense. He had gotten back his badge and gun, but he knew Welsh was keeping an eye on him -- an even closer one than before.

"I got her," he added softly.

The way he said it made it clear to Fraser that he hadn't arrested her. She was dead. That he wouldn't talk about it showed how much it cost him to even mention it. Ray wasn't the man to shoot someone in cold blood. And he was never rash in using his weapon. Whatever had happened, and Fraser intended to find out soon, he was sure that Ray had seen no other option. The detective might be easily enraged, but when it came to critical situations, he was calm enough to make the right decision.

"And what happened to you?" Fraser asked plainly.

"Oh, you mean the hand? Nothing. Just had a little quarrel with a baseball bat." Vecchio made a dismissive gesture.

"And it hit the shoulder, too," the other man stated matter-of-factly.

"Yeah." Ray looked sheepish. "She surprised me."

"She surprised us both. I thought she'd miss me by five centimeters." Fraser looked a bit puzzled that he had miscalculated that much.

"Centimeters?" Ray looked exasperated. "Don't talk Canadian to me, Fraser!"

The Canadian smiled at the enraged yelling. It was a good sign where Ray was concerned. The more he yelled, the better his emotional state was getting. The quieter he was, the more worried Ben had to be. A quiet Ray Vecchio wasn't a good sign.

"Two inches, Ray," the Mountie translated.

"You miscalculated by two inches, huh?" The police officer shook his head. "Terrible, terrible mistake."

"It is," Fraser said seriously, well, almost. There was a suspicious light in his eyes. "My Mountie colleagues would never forgive me -- if they knew."

"I swear, I won't tell. Solemn word of honor." Vecchio grinned, already bouncing back to his old self. "Listen, I gotta go before the nurse throws me out again. I'll say hello to Diefenbaker from you, okay? The doc said I can't take him along, though I might be able to bribe a nurse into smuggling him in."

"Thank you." The Canadian had not missed the word 'again' and he knew that he had not imagined his friend's voice while drifting in and out of consciousness. "Don't go through any more trouble than you already have."

Ray's smile broadened. "See ya," he called, then he left the room.

Benton Fraser closed his eyes again, his head pounding. There was a distant pain in his abdomen and he knew it was a bullet wound He'd be out for some time, but he was lucky to be alive. Two inches. It had been close. But he was alive, and Ray was alive. That was all that counted. With a satisfied smile Fraser drifted back to sleep, the knowledge that his friend was all right accompanying him.

 

* * *

 

One week later Fraser was finally released from hospital, with the stern advice not to strain himself and not to return to duty too soon. The Canadian took that advice since long, motionless standing was very painful for him. He felt relatively okay while walking or sitting, but he couldn't run or stand motionlessly still. Inspector Moffat, his superior at the Consulate had told him to report back when he felt fit for desk duty. He'd arrange everything else. Ray had picked him up at the hospital and now drove him over to his place.

"Some guy named Kevin showed up yesterday," Vecchio said as he steered the Buick Riviera through the Chicagoan streets.

Fraser's eyes widened with what Ray recognized as guilt. "The book!" he exclaimed. "I completely forgot about the book!"

"You've been in the hospital for one-and-a-half weeks, Fraser," Vecchio told him, rolling his eyes. "No one can possibly expect you to go out and haunt garbage cans!"

"But I promised him to find his book." The Mountie looked crestfallen.

"I'm sure he'll understand. B'sides, you still don't know whether it was his book in the first place or not." Ray stopped in front of the apartment building where Fraser lived in.

"It is his book, Ray." Serious, blue eyes looked at the other man. "I know it."

Ray just shook his head and got out of the car. Fraser followed, though a bit slower than usual. He wasn't as agile as he was used to, with the painful twinge in his side that reminded him of the injury every time he moved the wrong way. He thought about the stairs that were still in front of him and sighed.

It took them a while to get to the floor where his room was. Ray hovered at his side, trying not to make it too obvious that he was worried. Fraser knew that the other man didn't want to appear too helpful, but that he would immediately lend him a helping hand if he asked for it. Fraser walked up doggedly, though he would have liked to stop once or twice. But he had some kind of pride which was hard to surpress. When they finally arrived on the third floor and he opened the door, they were greeted by an ecstatic white wolf.

With a bark, transforming into a whine, he jumped at his master, his tail wagging. Ray saw Fraser wince with pain, but the Mountie didn't say a word to get Diefenbaker away from him. Instead he transformed his face into a broad smile and ruffled the wolf's fur

"Hey, Diefenbaker," he greeted his wolf friend, sounding very glad he was home and found everything all right.

And Ray knew why. The last time he had entrusted Diefenbaker to Willie's care, the kid had let him go with a wild bunch of dogs, who wrecked havoc in the neighborhood. And it had nearly ended in Diefenbaker being shot. It was a time Ray didn't want to think about. He had never seen Fraser so beaten, so desperate then.

The wolf gave another whine, visibly happy to see the Canadian again.

"Yes, I promise not to do it again."

Ray grimaced. "Don't you think it's really low to lie to a wolf, Fraser?" he asked.

Fraser lifted both eyebrows.

The detective sighed. "You really think you won't do it again? Think again, Benny. Remember when you were stabbed? You were running head first into a known murderer! That was just as foolish as shoving me out of the way of a bullet. Anybody but me would call that suicidal. I call it stubbornly stupid. I don't think you should promise something you just can't help, don't you?"

Ben shrugged, unable to say that Ray was wrong. It had been instinct, both times. He really just couldn't help it. He had this urge to help people who needed him. When he had been stabbed, it had been his father's old friend sergeant Frobisher who had needed his help. Now it had been Ray, who might be dead if Fraser hadn't acted.

"Both times my help was needed," he finally said.

"Who are you? Superman?" Ray asked, a bit exasperated. "You can't just charge in and talk the bad guys into giving up. Those are not Canadians, Fraser, those are American bad guys. Shoot first, ask questions later."

"I know, Ray."

"'I know, Ray'," Vecchio mimicked, grimacing. "As if that knowledge ever kept you from doing foolish things. I give up." The detective looked resigned.

Fraser absently patted the white wolf. Then his eyes fell on an empty pack of donuts. Scowling, he walked over and picked up the box.

"Dief," he said slowly, looking at his friend.

The wolf whined a bit, looking very guilty.

"This fast food is no good for you, Diefenbaker," Fraser said sternly, scowling a bit. "It is even worse for your digestion."

A growl, but not menacing, simply apologetic, transforming into a whine.

The RCMP officer kept the scowl for a whole five more seconds, then sighed. "Okay, I'll forgive you one last time."

Ray had grinned broadly throughout the whole conversation between Mountie and wolf. This was perfectly normal. It wasn't the first time that he was the witness to such a situation. Either Fraser had always been alone, except for Diefenbaker, or he really thought of the white wolf as a sentient being, able to understand every word. And sometimes Ray really thought that he could.

A knock on the door made both men turn. The door was cautiously opened and a blond mane of slightly wavy hair appeared. "Fraser?"

The blond head belonged to a wiry thin and pale teenage boy. He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. A grey shirt peeked out from under the jacket. Ray guessed he was barely fifteen. He looked a bit malnutritioned, but not badly, and his clothes had surely seen better times.

"Hello, Kevin," Fraser greeted him, a welcoming smile on his face. "Come in."

"Hi," the teenager returned, eyeing Ray with open distrust. "Thatta cop?"

The police officer raised both eyebrows. Did he have 'police' stamped on his head or what? How could the kid know that? And then, how did anybody know. It was a mystery to him how street people always knew cops in civvies by simply looking at you.

"This is Ray. He is my friend," Ben simply said, but still a warm feeling spread inside of Vecchio. "Ray, this is Kevin, the young man I told you about."

Kevin gave Ray another suspicious look, then shrugged, closing the door behind him. "Ah heard t'about ya gettin' shot," he then said. "Sorry 'bout that. An' hello from th'others."

Ray briefly wondered who 'the others' were. Was Ben founding a street kids' club or what? Was he recruiting youngsters for the Boy Scouts? Would be just like him.

"Listen, 'bout th'book ...." Kevin began.

Fraser's face turned guilt-laden. "I'm sorry, Kevin, but I couldn't find it."

"'S okay," the boy shrugged and smiled a bit. "'Twas just an old book anyway. Nothin' of worth." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his washed out blue jeans. "An' s'was just comics."

Ray shot Fraser a 'Told-you!' look.

"Oh." It was clear the Mountie didn't believe the blond teen. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

That was the second Diefenbaker gave a whine and hopped onto the bed, pawing away the pillow and the cover. Then he took something out from under it and went back to Fraser. The dark-haired man stared at the slightly dirty and smeared, bound hard cover book in his wolf's jaws.

"The book!" Kevin exclaimed. "But how did you ...?"

Diefenbaker dropped the book in front of Fraser, sat down on his haunches and looked expectantly at his master. The dark-haired Canadian picked up the book, still looking caught by complete surprise.

"Where did you find that?" he finally asked the wolf.

Diefenbaker barked.

"Oh." Fraser turned to Kevin, handing over the book. "Here you are, Kevin."

The boy smiled happily. The bright, really dopey smile made Ray reverse his opinion that Kevin might have stolen it somewhere. If he had really stolen it, he wouldn't be that happy to see it again. He'd simply taken the book and left.

"Thank you!" he managed.

Fraser smiled in return, perfectly happy too that he had been able to help again.

"See ya next Friday?" the teen asked, hugging the book to his chest.

"Of course."

"'kay. See ya then." Kevin left, nodding to Ray, who only gave a half-hearted wave.

"Next Friday?" Ray inquired after the boy was gone, shooting Fraser a query look.

"Oh, I'm meeting some of the neighborhood boys and girls and teach them a few things," the Canadian explained.

"Mountie things?" Ray guessed.

"Yes. They are very interested in learning things."

"Right. And use them the next time they make a break or want to get away from us cops." Ray didn't know why Fraser didn't get it into his thick, Mountie head. Or didn't want to get it. You couldn't just go around and help people! There was bound to be something backfiring at you.

"They won't use it for illegal purposes, Ray," Ben said seriously. "If they do and I find out, the lessons will stop."

"Yeah, right. Big threat." The police officer gave up. Fraser had to live and learn from his owns mistakes. "Okay, now you've done your good deed for today, Boy Scout," he said instead. "I'm gonna go back to the precinct. Anything you need that I can get you?" He looked around the spartanic looking apartment. In his opinion, Fraser needed everything.

"No, thank you, Ray. I'm fine." Fraser got out of his jacket, grimacing slightly.

"Yeah, I can see that," Vecchio muttered. Aloud he said: "Gotta go."

Ben smiled and waved a good-bye. As Ray closed the door behind him, he turned to Diefenbaker.

"Okay, Dief," he began. The wolf cocked his head, looking expectant. "I thought we had an agreement about leaving the room when I'm not home?"

A whine.

"No, that's not right. I thought the lesson with Maggie was enough." Fraser felt a slight anger rise inside of him. The 'Maggie' incident still set free a deep fear of loosing the wolf again -- permanently, to a bullet. It had been very close that time and he didn't wish to relive all of it again.

Another whine, this time half apologetic.

"Yes, you found the book and I'm proud of you, Dief. But that doesn't lessen the danger you're in out there, alone. Don't you understand?" Fraser sighed. "Okay, I'll forget the incident. It was nice of you to find Kevin's book, but don't do anything that foolish again."

A bark.

"Yes, I too promise not to do anything this foolish again." The dark-haired man smiled. "Now, to find you something to eat. I'm sure we still have some of that dog food ...."

Diefenbaker growled and turned his back on Fraser, pointedly walking away from him. A grin spread over Fraser's face. If he remembered correctly, there was a donut shop nearby. The wolf had earned himself a treat -- however unhealthy.


End file.
